


The Case of the Detective & the Doctor

by WhatLocked



Series: The William Watson Case Files [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Absolute tooth rotting fluff, Developing Relationship, Frotting, Lots of kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rating may up in later chapters, Sherlocks POV, William is up to something, all four of them!, almost kisses, and the pining starts!, angst and mysterious women, lisping...still, missing child, mycrofts umbrellas, surprised hand holding, tantrums, unnecessary distancing, which would just be ewww gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9133078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: Continuing on from The Case of the Boy & the Soldier, Sherlock finds himself comfortably fitting in with John and Williams happy little family, but is it enough to view it from the side lines?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the next instalment of the William Watson Case Files, as promised, just in time for the new year.
> 
> Unfortunately this one will not come along as quickly as the last one, although it is all outlined, so it will definitely have an end!
> 
> Happy 2017 to you all and I hope you enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

It had been four and a half wonderful weeks since John and William had come back into Sherlocks life, and while there were still days of absolute boredom and days of frustrating cases (which were less frustrating now that John had decided to join him on  the ones he was available) it was mostly a rather pleasant four and a half weeks.  John was, as Sherlock had hoped, interesting and stimulating and not even close to the level of idiot that Sherlock dealt with on an almost daily basis, and William was just the same as he had been during his time with Sherlock, all those weeks ago - intrigued by the smallest things, eager to learn, full of slightly-not-quite wisdom and a ball of what seemed to be pure energy.  Their company was refreshing and a welcome reprieve from the dull existence his life had become.  In a word it was a marvellous.  Everything had been going smoothly.  Until that Sunday, four and a half weeks later.

“Nooooooo” William wailed as his father held his coat out to him.  “I’m. Not.  GOING!” and with that he threw himself onto the floor and started kicking his legs and flailing his arms about, screaming and crying and not making any real sense at all.

Once more, Sherlock found himself feeling slightly unnerved at the tantrum William was throwing.  He had only seen the one and that was when the boy had been horribly distressed at being separated from his father after undergoing a traumatic experience of his own.  He looked to John, to find out what his reaction was, only to see the man give a weary sigh, his shoulders slump in resignation and the coat go lax in his fingers as he prepared to wait out the storm.  Clearly this was not a new experience for him, nor one he relished in experiencing again, especially as it was nearing 8 o’clock at night.

Right, it was up to Sherlock to fix this.  “Tea?” he asked heading into the kitchen and getting ready to prepare two cups of tea.  Over the screaming and thumping of small feet and hands upon the floor he could hear the slight uneven gait of John following him.  John barely limped any more, not since Sherlock had fixed it three weeks ago when he had needed a _reliable_ medical opinion on post-mortem injuries, and since Lestrade hadn’t let him take photos, he had had to call in specialised help to come to the crime scene instead.  Hence, John being called up, whilst at work and Sherlock practically demanding his presence at the crime scene.  Surprisingly, John had complied and the case had had a successful, swift conclusion thanks to Johns input.

“I am really sorry about this” John said as he moved up next to where Sherlock was making the tea.  It had been a long day, especially since Sherlock had called John up at 4:45 am with an interesting case and a promise to have a reliable babysitter at his flat in twenty minutes.  He had trawled through many candidates that would serve as a  suitable on call nanny for William and found one that would suit perfectly, especially as she was proficient in four languages and three musical instruments - a perfect role model for Williams long term cognitive development and then he realised that maybe he should stop making longterm plans involving John and William.  

“Think nothing of it” Sherlock replied, ignoring John’s usual grimace as he dumped four sugars into his own tea cup.  “He’ll wear himself out eventually.”

Sherlock finished making the tea and handed the sugarless one to John.  “You are really good at this” John mused as he sipped his tea, all the while William continued to scream and thrash about in the living room.  

“Well, it’s not like he has an endless store of energy.  He is bound to slow down sooner later.”

At this, a grin appeared behind Johns mug.  “Mrs Hudson told you that, didn’t she.”

Sherlock answered by looking, almost sheepishly, down into his mug.

“How many of these did he throw while I was gone?” John asked, turning his attention back to the living room.  

“Just the one” Sherlock assured and let out a small sigh of relief as Williams screams turned into heaving sobs.

The two men looked towards the living room, drinking their tea silently, as William finally quietened down, his sobs turning into stuttering breaths.  

“Should probably go in and find out what that was all about” John said, placing his now empty mug on the already cluttered kitchen table as he walked through to where William was still, undoubtedly lying on the floor.  Quietly, Sherlock trailed behind and watched as John sat down on the floor and held his arms out to his son.  William quickly got up and scrambled into his lap, wrapping his small legs around Johns waist and his arms around his chest.  A mirror image of the way he had latched onto Sherlock that very first day.  

Sherlock watched as John leaned back against the couch and brought his hand up to rub along Williams spine and Sherlock could see William physically relaxing into Johns body, his small shoulders still shuddering every now and then.

“Do tantrums get us what we want?” John asked quietly and William shook his head.

“Do they let me know what is wrong with you?” Again, William shook his head.

“What do they accomplish?” John asked.

“Nothing, but I don’t get to watch TV for a day.”  Williams words were quiet and interspersed with small hitches.

“Right, so do you want to tell me what would have been a better option?” John asked still rubbing his hand soothingly up and down Williams back.

“To tell you what I wanted” William answered.

“And that would be…?”

William took a deep breath.  “I don’t want to go home” he said quietly.

“Buddy, we need to go home.  It’s way past your bed time and we have been here almost all day.  I’m sure Sherlock has had enough of us by now.”

William shook his head, as if reading Sherlocks mind.  No, he didn’t want them to go.  He never wanted them to go.  They had somehow become a necessary feature inside 221 B Baker Street and there always seemed to be an empty gap whenever they left.  But Sherlock kept his mouth shut.  It wasn’t their fault that Sherlock was lonely.

“I don’t want to go home” William repeated.  “The bad men are home.”

John stopped rubbing Williams back and wrapped his arms around him instead.  Sherlock knew what this was about.  It was the nightmares.  At the beginning John had said that William was still having nightmares over what had happened, but they hadn’t been mentioned since so Sherlock had assumed that they were no longer an issue.  He had apparently been wrong.

John was silent for a bit before speaking quietly.  “Remember what we spoke about the other week.  About the bad men?” John asked.

William nodded.  “Therlock made them go away” he mumbled into Johns shoulder, before turning his head towards Sherlock and giving him a small smile and Sherlock couldn’t quite help the surge of pride that spread through his chest at hearing how he had been made into the hero in Williams eyes, despite the fact that if it hadn’t been for John, he wouldn’t be there.  

“But what if they come back?” William asked, turning his face back into Johns shoulder.  “They know my houth.  They don’t know Therlockth.  They can’t find me here.”

John let out a weary sigh.  One that said that this wasn’t the first time they had had this conversation.  “I promise you, William.  They are not coming back.  Ever again.”

William just shook his head against Johns shoulder.  Apparently John was not going to win this argument this time round.  William looked back up at John, and without being able to see his face, Sherlock knew he had those navy eyes open wide and had his bottom lip dropped.

“Pleath, daddy.  I don’t like it at home anymore.  I want to thtay here.”

For reasons unknown to Sherlock he felt the need to interject before John had a chance to object to his sons request and before he could stop it from happening Sherlock opened his mouth and said, “I don’t mind.  It will only take a few minutes to make up the bed in the upstairs room.  You are both welcome to stay, for tonight at least.”

There was a silence in the flat that seemed to drag and Sherlock had a horrible feeling that he had grossly overstepped one of those lines that normal people didn’t cross as John looked up at Sherlock with a look that Sherlock couldn’t name and William looked up at him with wide hopeful eyes.  

“Pleath?” William quietly begged, turning back up to face his father.  

“I, umm, I guess, if it’s not any trouble” John answered slowly, still looking at Sherlock with that expression that left Sherlock feeling uncomfortably antsy, and despite Williams excited “Yayy” Sherlock felt a ball of dread settle in his stomach as he realised John may be angry at him for undermining his decisions as a parent, no, as _the_ parent.  Williams parent.  The only one William had.  Sherlock was just a friend.  That was all.

“I’ll go get the sheets” he mumbled and quickly left the living room.  He was just coming out of the bathroom, fresh sheets in his hands, when he almost walked into John.  This was it.  This was John telling him he had overstepped his mark.  Eventually this is what happened.  People got sick of him, of the way he took over, of the way he assumed his way was right.  They got tired of his lack of social cues and became overwhelmed with his frank brashness.  This was where John would tell him that he was thankful for everything he had done for them but maybe it was better if it was just him and William from now on.

“Thank you” John said and Sherlock almost dropped the sheets.  Clearly this had gone undetected by John as he kept talking.  “His nightmares have been getting worse this past week, and I have been at my wits end trying to think of something that didn’t involve taking him to a professional, but you really don’t need to feel obliged to do this.”

Sherlock took a few moments to process what John was saying.  It was all fine.  In fact, it was appreciated.  He hadn’t overstepped some invisible line or pushed any ridiculous boundary.  John wasn’t leaving.  He was, in fact, staying but only if it was fine with Sherlock.

”I don’t mind” he quickly blurted out and then asserted some form of control over himself.  “I mean, it’s fine.  No hassle at all” and as if to prove his point he held up the sheets.

“Thank you” John smiled and the two of them made their way back into the living room.

“Come on, you” John directed at William as they entered the room.  “This was your idea, you can help make the bed.”

Sherlock didn’t miss the satisfied grin that lit up Williams face as he slid off of Sherlocks chair and headed towards the stairs.

Suddenly, John stopped and let out something of a pained sigh, causing both Sherlock and William to stop in their tracks and turn to him. “Jesus, your brother picked me up off the streets, just for starting to go on cases with you” John muttered out of something sounding almost like desperation and Sherlock just managed to hold back the grin at how John had turned that particular meeting around, refusing to co-operate with Sherlocks brother.  Mycroft had stayed blessedly absent from Sherlocks life for four whole days, before he got over his sulk, and once again taking up the unpleasant business of contacting Sherlock at least once every other day.  “God knows what he’s going to do know once he finds out I spent the night.”

“Mycroft ith a ponth” William grumbled and was quickly reprimanded with a quick “ _Oi_ ” from John and a stifled chuckle from Sherlock, which then earned Sherlock a glare from John.  Sherlock quickly bit his bottom lip, dropping the smirk from his mouth.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t keep the mirth from showing in his eyes, which William returned with a grin of his own once Johns back was turned to the both of them.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and William are away for Christmas and Sherlock is dreading the holiday more than ever, but then again, maybe not all is a terrible as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as a reward for finishing off all my reports at work on time (yay me) I have decided to add another chapter. It's a bit longer than normal, but that's okay too! 
> 
> Hope you have all had a fantastic start to the new year (we won't acknowledge how Moffat and Gatiss ripped our hearts out, crushed them into crumpled, tiny blobs and then dropped them at our feet) and happy reading!

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock lay on the couch and watched as the lights blinked on for five seconds and then off again for three.  _On for five.  Off for three_.  It was horrid, deplorable and very much out of place in the living room of 221 B Baker Street.  

Well, at least it was _now_.

Sherlock didn’t do Christmas.  He hadn’t since he was seven and had come to the realisation that it was actually impossible for one man to travel around the world, in 24 hours and break into every house to deliver presents, and that was taking into account the many children who didn’t believe in Father Christmas for one reason or another.  When he had questioned Mycroft about it his brother had looked smug and then bragged about how he had figured it out when he was five.  That year there was no present from Father Christmas under the tree as Mummy had decided that since Sherlock had finally outgrown the ridiculous tradition, forced onto her children by her insufferable mother-in-law, there was no point keeping up the pointless fast.

But William, despite his intelligence, was also a very imaginative child and John was a strong believer in letting children be children, so when Sherlock had told William that he didn’t put up a Christmas tree the small boy had sunk into such a state of depression that he didn’t even nibble at the muffin that Mrs Hudson had offered him.  He hadn’t even pleaded with his father to spend the night at Baker Street, as had been the norm since they had stayed that one night, four nights previous.  The following morning Sherlock had got up ridiculously early and had not returned home until there was a perfect, six foot specimen of Abies Nordmanniana in his possession.   John and William had arrived later in the afternoon, as it was a daily occurrence now, and William had been so excited at the tree that he had dragged Sherlock out, then and there, to go buy decorations for the tree.  

Those decorations had been an eclectic mixture of traditional glass baubles, cartoon characters, tinsel, make-your-own and the flashing white fairy lights that Sherlock was now glaring at and hating, because despite all of his good intentions at making a fun Christmas at Baker Street, William and John would not be there to enjoy it.

Last night, two nights before Christmas eve, John had received a phone call stating that his grandmother was had taken a turn for the worse.  She wasn’t expected to see out Christmas.  This morning both he and William had caught the train to Hawick.  In Scotland.  Not in London.  

Sherlock glared at the flashing lights.  _On for five.  Off for three._ _On for five.  Off for three._ Sherlock hadn’t understood why John had gone so eagerly.  It wasn’t as if the woman would even remember who they were.  Sending Harriet would have the same effect on the woman.  In fact - the slurred speech and unarticulated half sentences - the old woman probably would have more in common with Johns alcoholic sister.  But loyal, caring John, being the only living relative that had cared, had taken it upon himself to uproot his family for the upcoming holidays and had gone to comfort his grandmother in her final days.  Sherlock supposed he would also stay for the funeral.  They could be gone forever.

A tired sigh left his mouth.  Being angry, at a tree no less, was exhausting.  It wasn’t like this was the first Christmas he would be spending alone.  It wasn’t as if he even liked Christmas, but the past few days had seen him actually looking forward to the day.  William had put so much effort into decorating the tree.  He had sung insipid Christmas carols, incorrectly one might add, the entire time and the smile hadn’t left his mouth once.  As for John, he had hummed along, out of tune, and held William up so he could reach the higher branches and wiped glitter from his hands onto any part of Sherlock he could reach, laughing whenever the taller man balked at the realisation that he was once again being _sparkled up_ as William put it. 

Sherlock had actually gone out and brought more than the standard four gifts, one each for Mrs Hudson, Molly, Lestrade and, yes, even Mycroft, and he had even put a bit of thought into it.  There was now what appeared to be a small mountain of gifts under his mis-matchedly decorated tree.  Had he not been selfishly trying to find a way to prevent John from going to his dying grandma, he probably would have thought to hand them over to John, because surely they were not going to be back in two days time in order to open those presents on the correct day.  Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face and groaned.  This was pathetic.  He was 34 years old for crying out loud, not a bloody pining teenager.  John and William leaving for a few days (or a few weeks) should not affect him so, yet there he was, glaring at bloody Christmas lights.  And it was all Johns fault.

Three mornings ago Sherlock had woken to the sounds of small feet running down the stairs and then to the sound of the TV being turned on and then the volume adjusted.  He had smiled at the memories it had brought back of when William was living with him and that was when he had decided to get out of bed.  Wrapping his dressing gown around him he had made his way out to the kitchen only to encounter a sleep ruffled, yawning, messy haired, puffy eyed John Watson, stretching as he entered the kitchen wearing a pair of Sherlocks pyjama bottoms, which were far too long in the legs and covered his feet and an old t-shirt, which pulled tight across Johns chest as the man was both shorter and broader than Sherlock.  

“Morning” the man mumbled as he made his way past Sherlock and towards the bathroom and Sherlock felt that it was entirely unfair that John should be able to look so adorable and sexually alluring at the same time.  

That thought had almost sent him into a panic.  Yes, he had noted that John was a fine looking man, and yes he thought he was an interesting person to be around and yes he often longed for his company when he wasn’t around, but that had been the first time he had thought anything even remotely sexual about the man and he thought back on his time spent with John and realised that he had actually been feeling this way for quite a while now.  It had just taken him four or so weeks to realise that he more than just appreciated John as a friend, but was actually attracted to the man.

~o~

It was three o’clock by the time that Sherlock heard from John.  He sent a text message informing him that they had arrived safely and that it was fucking freezing, although, apparently William was quite excited about the snow.  An hour later a photo of a very happy William standing next to a very lopsided snowman was sent to his phone which was a good thing because he had been thinking that it was time to change the background on his phone for a while now.

~o~

Mycroft just couldn’t help himself.  Of course he couldn’t.  Apparently two days of staying away was more than enough and now that Sherlock was on his third Mycroft free day, his insufferable brother just felt the need to make an appearance, and on Christmas Eve of all days.  

The tune Sherlock had been playing on his violin had been light and airy and had maybe resembled something akin to a Christmas carol but once his brother made himself comfortable _in John’s chair_ the tune turned hard and sharp and resembled something out of the b-grade horror movie he had watched with John the night he had spent the night at Baker Street. 

“One of your own?” Mycroft asked as Sherlock finally conceded that his brother was not leaving and lowered the instrument back into its case.

“Yes, I call it _My Festive Fratricide in G Minor.”_

“How very fitting” his brother replied with that dry smile he wore when he was pretending to be amused.

“Whatever it is you want, the answer is no, Mycroft, but here” and Sherlock reached under the tree and retrieved two gift bags, both containing socks and a bottle of Whiskey.  “You have saved me a trip.  If you’d be so kind as to pass on Gavin's, since he will be with you any way.” He dumped the gifts, unceremoniously in his brothers lap, hoping it served its point.

As usual, Mycroft ignored the misapplication of his partners name, (he was not here to play games with his brother) and instead turned the focus back onto him. “That is a rather impressive hoard you have under the tree this year.  Expecting company?”

“Mycroft, you have your presents, now kindly piss off and feel free not to contact me until after the new year.  Goodbye.”

“And what an interesting tree it is” Mycroft continued, ignoring his brothers dismissal.  “Why is there a Pterodactyl hanging from the star?”

“It’s a Pteranodon, if you must know, and where else would you hang a Pteranodon, if not from the star?” was Sherlocks sarcastic response.  Why wouldn’t Mycroft _just leave_.

“Where, indeed” he agreed.

Apparently Mycroft wasn’t leaving until he had said his piece so Sherlock slumped down in his chair, glared at his brother and snapped “What is you want, Mycroft?”

“I hear Doctor Watson and his son are out of town for a few days.”

“Yes, _John and William_ are in Scotland with his grandmother, but that is not why you are here, so get to the point or get out.”

“Fine, it would dearly please both Gregory and myself if you would join us for lunch tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Gregory would be thrilled to see you, and it’s not like you have any other place to be.”

“I am having lunch with Mrs Hudson.  I couldn’t possibly leave her here all alone.”

“Funny that” Mycroft replied and Sherlock inwardly cursed Mrs Hudson’s sister for also being alone at Christmas, because he knew exactly what his brother was going to say.  “Martha was just telling me, as I arrived that she was just doing some final packing before she had to leave for the train, as she was going up to visit her sister for the next four days.”

Sherlock inwardly cursed his landlady for being so bloody chatty.

“So, since you have now found yourself free, lunch will be served at noon, and you may deliver these personally” he said, placing the gift bags on the coffee table.  “Good afternoon.”  

“I’m not coming” Sherlock shouted as Mycroft walked out the room.  

“I shall have a car pick you up at 11” his brother replied, closing the door behind him.  Sherlock responded by throwing a book on eighteenth century medical maladies at it.  The thump as it contacted with the wooden door was hardly satisfactory at all.  

**Mycroft is trying to force me to go to lunch**

**tomorrow.  Come home and save me from him.**

**SH**

It took John over twenty minutes to reply.

**Trust me, if I could, I would.  Maybe just go.**

**Who knows, maybe it might be nice.**

Sherlock scowled at the phone.  So much for support.

**You have met my brother, yes?  SH**

Again, it was forever before a reply came through.

**He’s not that bad, and in any case, Lestrade**

**will be there.**

Sherlock got up and started pacing.  This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go.  John was meant to back him up, not try and convince him to comply with his brother.  Deciding that John was no help, not doubt having his senses compromised by a dying relative, he threw his phone on the couch and picked up his violin.  

Picking up on the piece that had been interrupted by his brothers unwelcome visit he soon calmed down.  It wasn’t like his brother could actually force him to get in the car.  All he had to do was just refuse to go.  It was as simple as that.  He would be alone, as was the norm and nothing need to change from previous years. After all, it was just another day.

~o~

Sherlock groaned as he blindly reached out for his phone which was ringing, just a bit too loudly for his liking.  It was still dark.  Someone had better be dead.  He squinted his eyes open and saw the time on his clock read 5:45am, as his hand clasped around the phone, muffling the shrill ringing, just a bit.  

“This had better be good, Lestrade” He grumbled into the phone, letting his eyes fall closed again, refusing to open them for anything less than a five.

“MERRY CHRITHMATH!” was the reply he got, shouted down the phone causing his eyes to shoot open at the pain that jarred his head.  Maybe the mulled wine Mrs Hudson had left him wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“William?” Sherlock asked as in the background he could hear John.  “ _William, what are you doing, no, I told you, jesus, give me the phone_ ”

“Sherlock?”

“John?” Sherlock had a sudden feeling that something was wrong.  Why were they ringing now?

“God, I am so sorry.  I told him not to call you so early.” 

Sherlock blinked his eyes a few times, trying to clear the blur and get his eyes adjusted to the dark while he felt the pain in his head dull to a slight throb.

“No.  It’s fine.  Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, course it is.  Again, sorry about this.”

Sherlock looked back to the clock on his bedside table.  5:47am. “Why are you awake so early?” he mumbled into the phone, no longer concerned that something was wrong.

A small, weary chuckle left Johns mouth.  “We have been up since quarter past five.”

“What!” Sherlock almost balked, sitting straight up suddenly on alert again.  Unless something very interesting was happening, there was no reason anyone should be out of bed at that time.  “What’s wrong, I thought you said everything was fine.”

Another chuckle could be heard through the phone.  “It’s Christmas day, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tried to connect what the day had to do with William being awake an hour earlier than normal.  Apparently his silence was correctly interpreted as confusion by John who continued to explain.

“Did you never get up early on Christmas day, all excited by what was under the Christmas tree?”

Sherlock flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes again.  “John, at our house breakfast was served at  seven thirty every morning.  No one interacted before then, regardless off what day it was, and Mycroft and I always knew what was going to be waiting for us under the tree.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was in each wrapped box.”

Another huff of laughter left John and he answered with “I think that is possibly the saddest thing I have ever heard.”

“I won’t tell you about our Easter’s then” Sherlock replied refusing to think any more about holidays from his childhood.  He needed to change the subject.  “So, was there a reason for this ridiculously early wake up call?”  He punctuated the statement by letting out a rather large yawn and not bothering trying to smother it at all.

“Again, sorry for that” John answered, sounding somewhat regretful.  “William wanted to call as soon as the first two presents were open, but I told him he had to wait.  I didn’t see him take my phone, sorry.”

Sherlock waved the apology away.  “Don’t worry.  It’s not a problem” he reassured, although this was somehow diminished by yet another yawn, distorting the end of the statement.

“ _Can I talk to Therlock now”_ came Williams voice in the background, John, who sounded like he had turned away from the receiver could be heard saying “ _No, you can talk to him later, like maybe when the sun is up_.”

Sherlock could imagine the pout that would currently be gracing Williams lips and he couldn’t help but smile.  “It’s fine, John” Sherlock said, loud enough that John would be able to hear despite his head being turned away from the phone.

“What was that?”  John asked, turning his attention back to Sherlock.

“I said it’s fine.  If he talks to me now I can salvage the rest of the morning with more sleep.”

There was a moments silence while John seemed to think it over.  “Again, sorry about this, and - Have a merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“You too” Sherlock answered but he wasn’t sure if John heard or not because the words were only just out of his mouth when William was suddenly speaking.

“Merry Chrithmath Therlock” he greeted far too enthusiastically.

“Merry Christmas, William” he returned, trying to sound more awake than he was.  

“Did you get your prethent?”

Sherlock scratched absently at his shoulder.  “I think I’m a bit too old to be getting a visit from Father Christmas.”

This caused William to giggle.  “I know.  But me a daddy put one under the tree for you.”

Sherlocks hand stopped its scratching.  He hadn’t realised that there was an extra present under the tree.  He hadn’t seen anyone put it there.  How did this escape his attention?  He had been under the tree, just yesterday - twice in fact - to retrieve Mycrofts and then later, Mrs Hudson’s gifts.  Not once did he notice an extra present.  

“We hid it under all the otherth” William informed him and Sherlock found himself getting out of bed and making his way to the living room where the lights on the tree were still blinking away.

“Me and daddy picked it out.  Gavin helped uth too but it wath me and daddy who went to the thopth.”  William prattled on some more while Sherlock pushed aside the neat pile of presents that were under the tree and sure enough, there was another present, one he hadn’t put there himself, wrapped in green paper decorated with preposterous representations of dancing reindeer in red hats.  

Sherlock felt the present, trying to discern what it was.  It was soft, but there was something hard under the layers.  It wasn’t a particular shape and was no longer than the length of his hand.  

“Have you opened it yet?” William asked excitedly.

“Just doing it now” Sherlock informed him, still curious as to what it was.    
“You’re allowed to rip the paper” William informed him, but Sherlock wanted to not just rip into it.  This was possibly the first gift he had been given that he didn't want to try and deduce, not that he got many gifts, and he certainly hadn’t been expecting one, so Sherlock opened the gift carefully to find inside a pair of cashmere lined leather gloves.  

“Thank you” Sherlock muttered, unfolding the gloves, ignoring the smaller item that slid to the floor.  “They’re rather quite lovely.”  And they were.  They were soft to touch, flexible and the lining was warm.  He pulled one on to find it fit perfectly.

“Daddy thaid you need new oneth becauthe you got athid on the other oneth.  And Gavin thaid you needed another magdify glath ‘cauth your other one had a crack in it.”

It took Sherlock to second to realise that William meant magnifying glass and was momentarily puzzled as to what gloves had to do with magnifying glasses when he remembered the item that had been wrapped up in the gloves.

He reached down and picked it up, turning it over and studying it from each angle.  The casing was round and black and easily handled.  Upon further inspection he found that the casing enclosed two lenses that swung open.  Both lenses had different magnifications, one 4 and one 5.  When they lined up they gave a 9x magnification, one better than his last loupe. 

“If you puth the button the little light turnth on” William continued and Sherlock realised that the boy hadn’t actually stopped talking whilst Sherlock had been analysing the gift.  Sherlock found the button and a small light did indeed turn on.  “Daddy thaid it would help becauth thometimeth it ith dark and hard to thee.”

“Indeed it is” Sherlock confirmed turning the light off and then on again, in time with the flashing of the lights on the tree.  “Thank you very much, William.  These are wonderful gifts.”  William just agreed that yes, indeed they were good presents and then proceeded to tell Sherlock what he had received for Christmas.  By the time he had finished a good twenty minutes had passed.

“Daddy thaid I have to go now” he informed Sherlock and then, whispering conspiratorially into the phone he made a rather peculiar request.  Sherlock could only agree to carry out the request wholeheartedly and then said his farewells, deciding that he might just go to lunch at his brothers after all.

~o~

Sherlock looked at the small pile of umbrellas on his couch.  Four.  His pompous brother had four almost identical umbrellas. _Had_ Sherlock thought with a smirk.  It hadn’t been easy, smuggling them out under his coat without it being obvious, and getting into the car had been an ordeal.  It had probably helped that Lestrades mulled wine was as deadly as Mrs Hudsons and Mycroft had maybe had one too many glasses of the stuff, but all the same, Williams request had been carried out.  Well, almost.  The boy had asked Sherlock to hide all of Mycrofts umbrellas.  He didn’t say where.  Nowhere in the request had there been a stipulation that the umbrellas had to be hidden in Mycrofts house.  

Sherlock took a picture of the umbrellas and sent it to Johns phone with a simple message.

**Ask William if he has any ideas? SH**

The incoming message wasn’t from John.

**What did you do with them Sherlock?**

**I demand that they be returned immediately! MH**

Today was most definitely the best Christmas he had ever had.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Sherlock

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock ignored the sounds coming from the kitchen, instead opting to bury his head under the quilt even further.  One day Mrs Hudson may take her own advice and stop acting like his housekeeper.  He was almost asleep again when he heard a giggle which most definitely did not belong to Mrs Hudson, followed by a humoured ‘ _Shhh_.’

Sherlock grinned under the cover of his blankets and kept up the pretence that he was asleep, although by all rights he should be very put out.  John and William had left for Scotland two and a half weeks ago.  Apparently they were home now, and no one had bothered to inform Sherlock, but Sherlock supposed he could live with that, especially if it meant that Mrs Hudson was going to let them in so they could make him breakfast.

There were a few more dulled clanging and banging sounds emitting from the kitchen before there was another giggle, followed by hushed whisperings and then a “Now?” from William and another murmured response from John.  It must have been an acquiesce as just then the two of them moved from the kitchen, towards Sherlocks room.  The sounds of Johns footsteps were hardly audible over the sound of Williams feet trying too hard to sneak up to Sherlocks door.

Sherlock made a show of stirring, just a bit as the door creaked slightly at the three-quarter mark of being opened. It didn’t take long for the covers to peel back from his face and Sherlock cracked open one eye to see a grinning William beaming down at him.  

“Happy Birthday” he cried and Sherlock groaned.  Was it really the 6th already?  It was then another thought occurred to him.  “How did you…bloody Mycroft” he growled.

William giggled.  “Bloody Mycroft” he confirmed, without actually knowing what he was confirming.  It was followed by an “ _Oi, language_ ” from John and Sherlock wasn’t sure which one he was talking to.    “And we made you blueberry pancaketh becauthe he thaid you liked them on your birthday.”

John handed William the plate he had been holding, who then handed it over to Sherlock and sure enough, there were three blueberry pancakes, the melted butter leaving a runny smiling face on each one.  The truth had been, he had loved blueberry pancakes all the time when he was a child, but his parents being the people that they were felt it not necessary to be indulged every other day of the year.  Even on his birthday it was done begrudgingly, and only because they hadn’t had to make them personally.  After all, that was what they had a cook for.  This year was probably the first time he had breakfasted with people whose company he had actually enjoyed.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

“Thank you” Sherlock said, sitting up and taking the plate.  “Are you eating too?”  

William shook his head.  “I had breakfatht already” and without waiting for an invitation he scrambled up on the bed, over Sherlocks legs and settled on the opposite side of the mattress, mimicking Sherlock with his back against the bed head and legs straight out in front of him.

Sherlock was about to start eating when he realised that John was standing, awkwardly, by the foot of the bed.  Sherlock looked up to see him looking around the room with what almost looked like nerves.  At his side, the fingers on his left hand were drumming out an irregular beat against his thigh.  It dawned on Sherlock that this was the first time that John had been in his room, and being the man that John was, most likely felt like he was intruding, after all, he hadn’t been invited in.

“Sit down, John” Sherlock said, somewhat grumpily, as this seemed to get John to do simple tasks without protestation or arguing, and he pointed to the end of the bed with the knife that had been laying on the edge of the plate.   Sherlock cut off a piece of pancake, as John did indeed sit on the end of his bed, and shoved it into his mouth.   He almost groaned.  It was perfect.  It was better than the ones he had as a child.  It was light and fluffy and had a happy balance between blueberries, which were fresh, and batter.  The butter added just enough salt for the overall taste not to be too sweet.  

“Did you make these” he asked John around a half chewed mouthful of pancake.  

“I helped” William offered at the same time John replied, “It was my mothers recipe.”

“Well, it is very good” Sherlock stated cutting off another bit.  This one didn’t make it to his mouth as William reached over and plucked it from his fork and with a giggle, shoved it in his own mouth.

~o~

The rest of the day was indeed pleasant, despite doing things that mainly interested William.  After Sherlock had gifted the Watson’s with belated Christmas presents they made their way down to the park to feed the ducks and then came back to Baker Street in order to pick up Mrs Hudson to take her out for lunch.  

It was there that there was apparently to be more gifts, which again, left Sherlock surprised.  It wasn’t that he had never received gifts in his adult life, it is just that the only person that seemed genuinely happy to give them to him was Mrs Hudson, who had gifted him this year, with a new scarf, almost exactly the same as the one she had knitted for him four years ago.

“Yours is getting a bit tatty around the edges, dear and it must be thinning out, what with you wearing it all the time.  I hope you don’t mind, but I went a shade darker this time.”

Sherlock leant over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.  “I don’t mind at all” he said, and then wrapped it around his neck.

Next was William, who was very excited indeed about handing over his present.  “I made it mythelf” he informed Sherlock as Sherlock unwrapped the bright orange paper, adorned with smiling birthday cakes.  Inside the folds of garish paper was a wooden frame, painted in Williams signature bright colourful swirls and streaks.  Small nuts and seeds had been glued around the edge in a _long-short_ pattern all edging a photo of William and Sherlock, taken when he wasn’t looking on one of their many trips to the park.  

“‘Cauth you don’t have any phototh in your houth” William said, explaining the reason for the gift.  Sherlock knew there were multiple photos adorning the shelves and walls of William and Johns apartment.  Even Mrs Hudson had some around her small flat,  but it had never occurred to him to put any up at his place.  Sherlock ran his finger gently around the frame.  Maybe it was time to start putting some up.

“Thank you William.  You can help me find a place to put it when we get home.”

 Sherlock froze when he realised what he had said.  _Home._   Implying that it was Williams home too, and by extension, Johns.  He wasn’t supposed to have said it, but it felt so natural that he hadn’t realised his error until the words had slipped his mouth.  Apparently it was not noticed by anyone else as William started chattering on about various places the frame could be placed as Mrs Hudson pulled another gift out of her bag and handed it to John.  

“This one is from me” John said quietly, handing it straight over to Sherlock.

Clearly a book, Sherlock studied the gift for a few seconds before opening it.  There was no possible way to deduce what book it was without more data, and Sherlock honestly couldn’t be arsed waiting that long so he pulled the paper open and held up the book.

The worn black leather was broken up with faded gold words embossed on the front.

_Advanced Bee Culture by W. Z. Hutchinson._

“I saw it in a second hand store when I was looking for records while up in Scotland and I remembered you saying something about wanting bee hives.  I don’t know how relevant it still is, but I thought it might be interesting at least.”

Sherlock ran his hand down the soft cover and opened it up.  “This is a first publication” he said, reading the publishing details on the old pages.  1902.  This book was over a hundred years old.

 “I wouldn’t know, to be honest” John admitted.  “The woman in the store seemed to be glad to get rid of it.  Said it had been on the shelves for years now.”

Sherlock flipped through the pages.  There were a few handwritten notes and a couple of tears.  Some of the pages had been dog-eared but overall, the book was in good condition, considering its age.  “Thank you, John” he said looking up from the gift to the man sitting across the table from him.  John offered a small smile and Sherlock smiled back.  

For a moment Sherlock forgot there were other people with them until Mrs Hudson gave a small cough, to clear her throat.

Sherlock quickly looked away, feeling his cheeks heat up, and his eyes landed on William who was looking between Sherlock and John with his head tilted and a very curious look in his eye.  Sherlock wasn’t sure what was going through the boys head at that moment as he looked from John to Sherlock and back to John again, but he never got time to find out either as John announced that it was probably time they thought about moving on.

~o~

The rest of the afternoon was spent at Baker Street where John and William tried to teach Sherlock how to play cluedo (that wouldn’t be a repeated experience) and Sherlock showing William the wonders of freezing water instantly while John read the paper, only yelling once when William snuck a handful of watery snowball down the back of his collar.

It was while John was in the bathroom, with William, helping him do up his trousers when another guest arrived.

Lestrade came into the flat, hauling a very full looking box of what Sherlock was most certainly positive was cold case files, complaining that Sherlock was a lazy sod, not answering his own doorbell and making his sixty-odd year old landlady answer it.  

Sherlock ignored him in favour of taking the box out of his hand and rifling through it.

“How’d you manage to get this” he asked, impressed almost to the point of awe as he dropped the entire box in favour of just one file.  It was the Duchess Landingham file.  A four year old, unsolved murder case that Sherlock had not been allowed on as the DI in charge at the time had had a serious dislike of Sherlock.  He had tried accessing these files multiple times and had been met with a stern, ‘ _Fuck of Holmes, before I throw your scrawny arse in jail’_ every time.

“A mans gotta have his secrets” was Lestrades answer.  “Happy birthday.  There is a folder in there from your brother, too.  He would have dropped it off himself but he was called away to Estonia, I think.  I was told, under no circumstance was I allowed to open it.  Apparently I don’t have proper clearance or some gob-shite.  Apparently he was breaking protocol just trusting it my care for delivery.  I suppose I should feel honoured.”

Sherlock waved all mentions of his brother aside.  “The Cuban assassinations.  It’ll be solved in a few hours and not nearly half as interesting as this” he replied opening up the file in his hand.  

It was just then that John and William returned to the room.

“Gavin” William cried excitedly, running over and wrapping his arms around Lestrades legs.  Greg ruffled the boys hair, but looked up at Sherlock with a very unimpressed frown.

“What?”  Sherlock asked.

“I really hate you some times” was Lestrades answer.

Again, all Sherlock could respond with was “ _What?”_   He honestly didn’t know what he had done wrong now.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William is acting a bit odd, but not as odd as Sherlock.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was six nights later that William started acting odd.  

Sherlock had just finished the Duchess Landingham case which had kept him busy for almost a week.  John had helped, but not the entire time, claiming that it was too long to leave William in care.  It had ended in the early hours of the morning, seeing a chauffeur and the Duchess’s sister-in-law arrested.  Sherlock was tired, hungry and in quite a bit of pain.  The stitches on his hip were unfortunately at the same position where the waist of every single pair of his trousers sat.  It was going to be an uncomfortable four to six days and there was no way John was not going to notice that something was wrong, unless Sherlock refused to change out of his pyjamas.  He was pretty sure that wearing just a sheet was not an option, at least not one that would be accepted warmly in any case.

Sherlock showered, found some left over Thai in the fridge and fell asleep on the couch half way through eating.  Later that afternoon he woke up, laying on the couch with a blanket over his legs and the Thai food no longer in sight.  

Mrs Hudson must have been up, and judging by the state of the rug, had vacuumed.  He must have been tired.

By the time John had finished work and picked up William from daycare Sherlock had texted him four times.  Unfortunately John had had a long day at work so Sherlock was going to have to go to their place for dinner or wait until tomorrow to see them.  At first he had told John that he would wait until tomorrow, but twenty minutes later he texted John and told him that he would grab something for dinner on the way over.  After all, it had been two days since he had seen John and William last, unless you counted the quick forty minute visit they had the other day on the way home from the cinema, and Sherlock most certainly didn’t count it, so deciding that he would have to suffer the waistband of his trousers rubbing against the four inch gash on his left hip, he dressed and left the apartment, texting Angelo on the way to the restaurant with their order.  He had timed his departure from home perfectly so he would arrive a few minutes before John and William did, and that would have been a grand idea, had it not started bucketing down with rain, just as the taxi pulled up in front of Johns building.  

Not having any adequate cover to stand under, Sherlock had to make use of the small porch over the two stairs that led to into the building.  By the time John arrived with the keys to open the door, Sherlocks feet and lower legs were soaked through.  At least the take away bag had kept his hands warm.

“Jesus, Sherlock, how long have you been waiting?” John asked as they pushed their way into the foyer, both John and William stripping off their raincoats.

“Only a couple of minutes” Sherlock replied, trying not to shiver and wondering if it was a bad sign that he couldn’t feel his toes.  

“Come on, lets get your feet out of those shoes, before you get trench foot.”

“I am fairly certain that it takes more than a few minutes to develop trench foot” Sherlock said as he followed William up the stairs, John trailing behind them.

“Yeah, but you like to be difficult, so lets not take the risk, yeah” was Johns reply, brushing past Sherlock once they were on the landing to open the door.  

Sherlock was met with a flush of warm air and he thanked whoever it was that had invented timing mechanisms for heaters as he felt the cold dripping from his body.  

“Take your coat off and sit down” John instructed, taking the take away bag out of his hands and Sherlock instantly missed the heat.  “Then get your feet bare.  I’ll grab you some dry socks.”

Sherlock did as he was told as John ushered William into his bedroom, presumably to also get changed into dryer clothes.

“Here” John said a few minutes later, thrusting a small silver key towards Sherlock.  “So you don’t have to wait in the rain next time.”  Sherlock slowly took the key from Johns hand.  The key to John’s apartment.  He was trusting Sherlock with a key to their home, not that it was strictly necessary, after all, lock picking was child’s play, he just didn’t do it because he actually didn't go out of his way to piss John off.  He made a mental note to get a spare key from Mrs Hudson, to give to John in return.  “And here” John added, pulling Sherlocks gaze away from the key in his hand, only to find not just a pair of socks, but also a pair of jogging bottoms being pushed into Sherlocks hands.  

“No” Sherlock refused, handing the trousers back to John, only to have them pushed back into his hands.

“You’re dripping on my rug.  Go change, and stop being a vain prat.”

Sherlock went to push the clothing back at John, but the look that John threw him told him that refusal was not an option.

“Fine” Sherlock grumbled and stood up, leaving the room in a manner that told John he was not happy about the situation.  Somehow, he didn’t think John would care what Sherlock thought about the situation.

Stripping out of his wet trousers was actually a blessing.  He hadn’t realised how cold his knees were until the wet material peeled away from them.  He quickly pulled the jogging bottoms on and then almost took them off again.  A good three and a half inches of ankle was showing.  He looked ridiculous. He pulled the trousers down, marginally, which meant they weren’t sitting on his injured hip, so that was a blessing, but it still left the clothing a good two inches too short.  He looked towards his trousers, sitting in a wet pile on the bathroom floor and contemplated putting them back on.  He only had to touch the cool fabric with his toe before he decided against the idea and with a sigh pulled the thick, horrid orange socks over his feet and almost groaned.  

Despite their atrocious, gaudy, vulgar colour, the socks were warm and soft and far too comfortable.  He suddenly decided he didn’t care what he looked like, so long as his feet could be this warm forever.  

The second he stepped into the loungeroom, John let out a bark of laughter before smothering any further merriment with his hand.  “Sorry” he got out after Sherlock glared at him.  “You look….warmer“ he said with a stifled grin that indicated that that was clearly not what he was thinking.

John bit his lip, trying to stop the grin but then looked away and his shoulders gave away the fact that he was indeed chuckling, albeit silently.

“Do you think we could maybe eat now?” Sherlock asked, deciding that John had had quite enough of a laugh over his appearance for one night.

With one final grin, John held out his hand in the direction of their small kitchenette and Sherlock led the way to find that John had already set the table and William had already managed to get pasta sauce all over his face as he slurped up spaghetti in a way that would leave Mycroft practically hyperventilating.  He made a mental note to invite him over for dinner one night along with the Watson’s and a rather large bowl of spaghetti.

Dinner was rather uneventful with William telling them what he and Brian had played with at daycare, and Sherlock relayed the conclusion of the case, leaving out the events eventuating in the need of stitches.  Dinner was followed by cleaning up, of both the dishes and of William and then it was time for evening TV.  Sherlock sat on the couch, as was his norm when he visited the Watson’s and just as John was about to sit in his armchair, William grabbed his hand and directed him over to the couch.

“William…” John started, but William gave a tug of his arm and said “I want you to thit here today” and left it at that while he fiddled with the remote control to find the channel he wanted.

When both men were seated and Shaun the Sheep (marginally better than Timmy Time) was playing in the background, William set about nudging at John until he slid over the couch, ignoring his fathers protests, until he was pushed up against Sherlock where William then proceeded to climb and half sit on Sherlocks lap and half sit on Johns lap while sat back against them both and watched the TV, giggling away and completely oblivious to the way the two men were now sitting uncomfortably, both trying to not be aware of the warmth bleeding from the man next to them, whilst on the telly a sheep managed to write complex equations on a blackboard.  I was a testament as to how over aware Sherlock was of his immediate surroundings that he didn’t seem fit to point out that it was impossible for an animal with hoofs to pick up a piece of chalk, let alone have the intelligence to use it correctly.

~o~

The following day, John and William came to Baker Street.  It was due to his brothers constant nagging about insignificantly boring subjects that Sherlock forgot he was concealing injury from John.

When John had arrived, Sherlock was pacing the room, listening to his brother drone on about discrepancies in recent reports pertaining to some person or another and why it was imperative that Sherlock take the time out of his social schedule (Sherlock had nearly hung up at that gibe) and actually look into the situation.

“You have people for this, Mycroft.  Use them, or better yet, do it yourself, after all, you are the _smart one_ ” Sherlock snapped sarcastically and impatiently placed his hand on his hip, wincing as he did, a soft hiss of pain whistling through his teeth, before he let go. Surely it should be feeling better by now, not worse.

“I’d rather this situation solve itself quickly, and I do not have the time, nor do I want to raise suspicion so early on, so my men are out of the question.  Perhaps you could postpone your little playdate this afternoon and…”

Sherlock hit the disconnect button and threw his phone on the couch, hoping it might get lost somewhere behind the cushions for the next day or so.  

“You’re hurt” came a voice behind him. Sherlock spun around to see John, sitting in his chair.  He had actually forgotten that he had arrived, so caught up in his petty feud with Mycroft.

“Where’s William?” Sherlock asked, ignoring John’s comment.  It was fine, nothing to worry about.  

“With Mrs Hudson, baking biscuits.  What’s wrong with your hip?”

God, the man was stubborn.

“Nothing, just a scratch” Sherlock replied, deciding that playing it down would confirm Johns fear that something had happened, but not enough to worry the man.  

He was wrong.

“Yeah, I’ve seen your _just a scratch_ before.  Show me.”

“No.”

“Sherlock.”

“I had a paramedic look at it on site.  Nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t believe you.”

With a groan, Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers and folded the waist band back, just enough for John to see the dressing covering the stitching.  “See, he stitched it and dressed it.  It’s fine.”

John stood up from his chair, only drop to his knees once he was next to Sherlock, and Sherlock had to bite his bottom lip and look away at the site of John on his knees, practically in front of him.  He ignored the sting as John peeled off the dressing, but he didn’t ignore the unimpressed hum that he made.

“What?” Sherlock asked, looking down at his hip.  It was rather red and puffy looking.

“When did this happen?”

“Early yesterday morning, why, what’s wrong?”

“Why didn’t you go up to A&E?” John queried further, ignoring Sherlocks question.

“I never go up to A&E.  I hate hospitals.  I wouldn’t have even bothered with this, but Lestrade said if I didn’t let the paramedic look at it, then he would personally drag me up to the hospital himself.”

“You do know that paramedics don’t normally do this, yeah?” John asked, indicating to the hip in front of his face.  “Did he tell you to get it checked by an actual doctor afterwards?”

“No.  Maybe.  Possibly.  Oh, don’t look at me like that, I had just come off a case and quite frankly couldn’t be bothered listening to the blatherings of an overworked, online poker addict, with bad breath and the unhealthy obsession with parrots, medical worker.”

“Right, well, it’s infected, well done you.  You’re going to need a course of antibiotics.  Plus, you need to change this dressing _daily_ , Sherlock, and not let it get wet, surely even you know that.  That’s basic first aid.”

“I’ve been a bit pre-occupied” Sherlock retorted.

“Why didn’t you let me look at it last night?  I could have written you out a script at work today and you could have picked it up.”

“Well, do it now?”

“I don’t actually carry a prescription pad around with me, Sherlock.”  Sherlock could see, in the way John was rubbing his forehead, that the other man was finding this situation more than a bit frustrating.  

John turned his attention back to the apparently infected wound and gave it a prod, startling a yelp out of Sherlock.

“John” he hissed, and was about to make some remark on his doctoring skills when there was a small cough at the door.  Both Sherlock and John looked up to see William and Mrs Hudson standing, the smaller one looking mildly confused and the older one looking smug for some reason unfathomable to Sherlock.

“Would you like us to give you a few minutes” she asked kindly and it wasn’t until John shot to his feet and took a step back with a “ _Umm, no, it’s all fine here.  Good, just making sure this idiot doesn’t die of septicaemia or something_ ” that Sherlock realised what they may possibly have looked like to an outsider.  

He refused to blush and tersely did up his trousers, also stepping away from John, just to distance himself that bit further.  Mrs Hudson just gave a knowing sort of smile and held up a tin of biscuits.  “I’ll just leave these on the table and get going, shall I?”

Both Sherlock and John just gave a short nod and soon she was gone and William was no longer looking confused as he pulled out a box of building blocks that had somehow managed to migrate to Baker Street.

~o~

Despite the weather being frigidly cold William still liked to go outside, so it was on the Saturday, after the incident with the hip (which was now healing quite well thanks to a course of antibiotics and daily care) that the three of them found their way walking through the London Zoo, both John and Sherlock each holding one of Williams hands.

“Can we get a pet tamarin?” William asked, swinging his legs up, suspending himself a good two inches above the ground.  Sherlock had grown used to this, no longer stumbling and nearly dropping William.  

“No” replied John, simply.

“What about a thloth?”

What on earth would you want one of those for” Sherlock asked.  “They don’t do anything.”

“Mine would” William exclaimed.  “I’d teach him to do all thortth of thtuff.”

“No” said John.

William lowered his legs to the ground and looked up at his father.

“You _alwayth_ thay no.”

“Yet, you keep asking, even though it is always going to be no because you are not old enough to look after a pet.  And besides, I’m pretty sure the pet shops don’t sell tamarins or sloths.”

“We could buy it from the thoo.”

John chuckled.  “I’m pretty certain that the zoo doesn’t sell their animals, buddy.”

There was silence after that as they stopped to look at the sloth that William was keen on teaching to do _all sorts of stuff_.  Sherlock thought it was rather dull, not at all a suitable pet.

“I had a dog” he said down to William, no longer interested in watching the sloth do nothing at all.  “His name was Redbeard and he was much more interesting than a sloth.”

William looked up at John but before he could even get a word out, John said “No.”  With a pout, William turned back to the sloth.

“Come on” William finally said, grabbing their hands again and tugging them along to the next enclosure.  

They reached the Malagasy giant jumping rats and William did a little twist under Johns arm so he was facing them, while still holding their hands.  “Here” he said and pushed Sherlocks hand into Johns, folding his longer fingers over Johns and then, letting go of their hands himself, he turned and leaned over the enclosure to get a better look at something not quite as boring as the sloth. 

Both Sherlock and John looked down at their joined hands.  A part of Sherlocks mind (the part that sounded an awful lot like Mycroft) was sternly telling him to let go while another part was commenting on how nice it actually felt.  In the end, it was John who unwrapped his fingers from Sherlocks and slowly pulled his hand away.  Sherlock didn’t protest or further acknowledge the hand holding. It seemed John was of the same frame of mind as he inconspicuously slid his hand into his coat pocket.  After all, it was initiated by a four year old boy, who thought it was perfectly normal for two people, regardless of their age, to hold hands.  

It was nothing.

~o~

“Ewww, groth” William gagged as he watched two teenagers snogging, not far from where they were waiting for their train to arrive. 

William had asked if they could get ice cream and Sherlock only conceded if they were able to get it from Chin Chin Laboratorists on Camden Lock Place.  William had only agreed if they could take the Tube, as trains were apparently way cooler than buses and taxis.  John had sat back and let the two barter out the outing, as they always did, knowing that trying to be the sensible voice of reason would be a complete and utter waste of time.  There was no voice of reason.

So, that was how Sherlock found himself, waiting for a train at the Baker Street station, trying not to be too overly aware of John standing next to him.  It had been four days since the zoo incident and while Sherlock knew it had been nothing, he could still feel the way Johns fingers had curled around his and how warm his hand had felt in John’s.  It didn’t help that William seemed hell bent on pushing Sherlock and John into close proximity of each other all the time.  Whether it be while they were sitting on the couch or in the backseat of a taxi, if they were at home, or at the park or at the markets, William always seemed to construct a way to get them touching in some fashion.  Even now, he had opted to stand in front of John and slowly herd him closer to Sherlock, rather than stand between the two of them as he used to do.

Sherlock looked from the teenagers, down to William (who looked utterly disgusted with the world) and up to John, who was trying unsuccessfully to hide an amused grin as he looked away from the couple, who appeared to not need to breathe apparently, before looking down to William again.  

“I concur, William.  Ewww.”

William glanced up at him and grinned despite that fact that he more than likely had no idea what the word concur meant.

“Not a fan of kissing, then?”  John asked, his tone light as if it were meant as a friendly barb, but somehow sounded flat.

“That is not kissing, John.  That is trying to suck tonsils out of another persons throat while leaving as much saliva on their face as possible.  So yes, ewww.”

“You have a point.”

Sherlock gave a short nod, and looked to his watch.  The train was late.  

“Have you kithed thomeone?” William asked curiously, looking back up at him.

Sherlock went to open his mouth and then closed it, not sure what he should say.  Was this one of those things that you weren’t supposed to discuss around kids?  

“It’s something people do when they get older, buddy.  You will too one day” John stepped in, saving Sherlock from an awkward situation once again.

The look on Williams face was comically horrified.  “I will do no thuch thing” he declared and then looked back towards the rails, deeming the discussion of kissing over, which was a good thing because talking about kissing led to thoughts about kissing and that usually ended with images of Sherlock kissing John, running through his head.

Unfortunately it was almost as if his thoughts were written all over his face as when he looked over to John again, John was staring at him.  To be precise (which Sherlock usually was) he was looking at Sherlocks lips.  

Unconsciously Sherlock licked his bottom lip and then suddenly wished he hadn’t, not sure how John would interpret it.  As it was intended apparently, for when he looked back up to Sherlocks eyes, Sherlock noted that his pupils weren’t as small as they ought to be in the amount of light that was available, but then again, he was sure his own were the same.  It seemed to be a mutual agreement to move towards each other, just minutely Johns head angling up, while Sherlocks dipped down.  Sherlocks brain was arguing with itself again, one part screaming to pull back while the other urged him on.  John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips and then everything was brought to a screeching halt as William tugged excitedly on both of their hands, calling out.  “The train is coming, come on!” and the moment was lost amongst the sound of the trains breaks and the people milling past to go climb aboard.  

When Sherlock looked back at John, he was no longer looking at Sherlock, but guiding his son towards the train, looking anywhere but at Sherlock.  Sherlock refused to believe he had royally fucked everything up.  At least, not until John actually told him so.  He’d give a week at most.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees John on a date and the happy world he had built starts to crumble down.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the end it only took three days.  Three days of not quite relaxed visits.  Three days of making sure they weren’t close enough to touch, despite Williams poking and prodding and tugging and pulling.  Three days of directing all conversation to relate to William or the weather, or an odd patient at the cliic or another example of Anderson’s sheer stupidity.  It was three days of pure torture and sheer frustration and not talking about Sherlock almost kissing John at the train station.

So, when John messaged him at eight fifteen that morning to say that he would have to cancel their plans that day Sherlock shouldn’t have been surprised.  And he wasn’t, not really, more like just disappointed.  

The previous evening, while sitting in their own seperate chairs, Sherlock had mentioned that an acquaintance of his owned some bee hives, not too far out of London and if John was interested they could all take a trip down the following morning to observe and procure honey.  William had been excited and John had agreed, not at all reluctant, much to Sherlocks surprise, so it had been organised that Sherlock would pick them up at nine-thirty and they would drive down.  

Sherlock didn’t press for details over why John had suddenly cancelled.  He had said something unexpected had cropped up and Sherlock took his word for it.    They would more than likely drop by later in the evening.

In the mean time, Sherlock needed to find something to do.  Surely there was a crime to solve or a body part to experiment on.  He had people to annoy.

~o~

As it turns out no there were no crimes, at least not any that Sherlock felt would banish his boredom and apparently Molly was on holiday which meant no access to the morgue.  He had sent her a message telling her she needed to come home.  She had sent him a picture of her and another woman sipping brightly coloured drinks by a poolside.  She was of no help at all.

Mycroft wasn’t responding to his needling text messages and Mrs Hudson refused to hand over any of her soothers for him to analyse.  

“I’ve told you a hundred times, young man, they are simply herbal.  There is nothing recreational in them at all.”

Sherlock had just shot her a look that told her he knew better.  If those things didn’t contain even just the smallest amounts of marijuana then he would retire as a consulting detective and take up teaching small children and simpletons how to make clay pots.

She just gave him a frown and turned to walk out of the room.  “You don’t have any of your Charcutière sauce handy by any chance” he called out as she walked away.  She ignored him.  

God, what was it with people and being extremely unaccommodating today?  Sherlock slumped down in his chair and opened his laptop.  Maybe there was something on his blog that needed updating.

~o~

Soil and sediment samples.

It had been close to 12 months since he had updated the properties of what was being naturally deposited onto the banks of the Thames, so, grabbing a pocket full of sample vials, Sherlock took himself downstairs and hailed a taxi.

~o~

Knowing that the taxi couldn’t drop him off to where he wanted to obtain samples from, Sherlock had it drop him off in front of a row of shops and small business, not even five minutes away from Tower Bridge.  He paid the cabbie, climbed out of the car and went to cross the road as it pulled away, bit was stopped when he looked up at the small patisserie just up and across the road.

The small shop had two large window adorning the front, on either side of the door, and sitting in the booth to the right of the door was none other than John Watson and he wasn’t alone.  Sitting across from him was a woman, with short blonde hair, cut so it sat neatly under her chin.  She looked to be no older than early to mid thirties and the smile she was directing at John was large, genuine and very affectionate.  Sherlock forced down the lump that had settled in his throat as he saw that John was mirroring that smile right back at her, his hand covering hers on the table that was between them.  

Sherlock looked down at his feet, trying to convince himself that it was all fine.  It wasn’t like he and John were a couple.  When he looked back up, it was to see that the two of them weren’t alone, as William was now leaning over the table, from where he had been sat next to the woman, originally unseen from Sherlocks position, to say something to John.  When he sat back the woman looked down at him and said something to him.  Whatever it was, it must have pleased the boy as he stared up at her and grinned.  

It didn’t take Sherlock long at all to realise what he was seeing.  John was on a date.  For a moment this left Sherlock puzzled - _why was he there, on a date?_ \- before the Mycroft in his head tutted.

Of course John would be there, out, on a date with a woman.  Why wouldn’t he be?  He had not once indicated that he was gay, and there was the fact that a one night stand, _with a woman_ , had resulted in William, so why should Sherlock be surprised that he was inside the cafe, sitting quite cosily, with a woman, who was more than likely considered attractive.  She certainly wasn’t ugly.  

Sherlock stood, across the road, and watched the three of them for a bit longer, trying to see any indication that it was not what it appeared to be, that it was not a date, but John had had his hand resting on hers for over four minutes now and he had been smiling at her the whole time, until she leant over, finally removing her hand from under Johns, to use it to tickle William.  Sherlock didn’t have to be inside the small shop to hear the laughter coming from the boy.  He could see it in the way he tipped over on the booth bench and his little legs kicked out, involuntarily, as he succumbed to a fit of giggles.  Sherlock had pulled that very move on him multiple times.  He knew exactly how he sounded.  With one last look at John, to confirm that yes, he was still smiling at the woman, Sherlock turned and walked back the opposite way he had wanted to go, determined not to let this bother him.  It wasn’t like John had indicated that there was anything more than friendship between them.  If Sherlock had anticipated more then that was purely his own fault.  He should know by now that he was not cut out for relationships, at least, not the kind that John was clearly looking for.  And who was he to stop John from having that?

Maybe it was time he stopped spending too much time with the two of them anyway.  He had already heard whispered gossip declaring that the two of them were an item.  He usually ignored it, not deeming it worth his time to correct the idiots that felt the need to discuss other peoples lives to make up for the lack of stimulation in their own.  Now he realised that he probably should have put a stop to it long ago.  

He made his way back to Baker Street, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s greeting as he ascended the stairs and, dropping his coat on the floor, made his way over to his lap top and opened it up.  A week ago he had received an email from a man in Manchester wanting Sherlock to solve the mystery of the ghost his wife was convinced lived in the house.  He had initially dismissed it as ridiculous, but now it had a bit of an appeal.  208 miles worth of appeal.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock has distanced himself from the Watsons, William going missing brings them back together again.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock stretched and blinked his eyes open as the vibrating rattle continued to sound.  He looked around to see his phone buzzing away on the coffee table.  Without even looking up he could see that it was John who was calling.  He pulled his dressing gown around him and rolled back into the couch.  He’d return the call later.  

The dull vibrating stopped and the room fell back into blissful silence once more, allowing Sherlock to slip back into a long over due sleep.  

For the past eight days he had been keeping himself busy.  Manchester had been mildly interesting, keeping him out of London for two nights.  

The first night, John had messaged him, just as his train was rolling out of London, to see if he was home.  

**Out of town for a case.  SH**

Sherlock hadn’t expected a response, thinking that John would be happy with the free time to spend with his new lady friend so he placed his phone in his pocket only to have to take it back out two minutes later when John replied.

**Must be at least a 9 if you’re leaving town.**

**Call me if you need a sounding board.**

Sherlock didn’t reply.  John did though.

**If your home by tomorrow night, let us know**

**and we’ll bring dinner.**

Sherlock put his phone on silent.

Over the day and a half in Manchester Sherlock solved the case and ignored 83.4% of Johns text messages, confused as to why he was even messaging Sherlock.  Wasn’t the norm to constantly message your partner once entering into a new relationship?  John’s messages seemed perky enough, so clearly the date had gone well.

Once back in London, Sherlock immersed himself in work, outside of the flat, taking on small cases from The Yard as well as private cases.  Mrs Hudson advised him of the three occasions that John and William had stopped by and he had assured her, half a dozen times that no, he and John had not had a ‘ _domestic_ ’ as she liked to term it. 

“I am just exceedingly busy, and John also has a life of his own.  We can’t constantly live in each others pockets.  It’s not healthy.”

“You got that out of a magazine” the woman admonished and then continued to dust Sherlocks bookshelves, something she usually only ever did whenever he annoyed her too much.

Sherlock didn’t deny it.  He had in fact got it out of a magazine aimed at teenage girls.  Someone had left it on the train and Sherlocks phone had gone flat.  He had needed a distraction from the 30 odd year old mum who was sitting across from him, trying to _get to know a bit about him_.  Ten minutes later she was still there, still asking questions.  It had needed to stop.

“Madam, despite what my outer appearances may portray I do not have money nor success.  Even if I did, and were looking for someone to exploit that, it wouldn’t be you as, as is evident by the fact that I have product in my hair nor have I  been staring at your legs or cleavage, I am in fact not at all attracted to women, especially those who prey on men for their money and social standing, so please stop with the chatter and maybe try and find someone closer down to your league.

The woman didn’t utter a word, just stood up and with a fierce glare and stormed away, finally leaving Sherlock in peace.

Three days ago, John had stopped calling.  Every time he had called, Sherlock had been busy and told himself that he would return the call later.  Somehow, later never quite eventuated.  

Over the past three days, Johns texts had gone from a dozen or so a day, to just three, and then to just the one.  

**I’m Sorry.**

That was it.  That was all the message had said.  Sherlock wasn’t a hundred percent sure what John was apologising for but trying to think about it left him feeling uncomfortable, so he deleted the message and continued on measuring the amount of bile from the stomach of the badger he had acquired earlier that morning.

Then yesterday, there was nothing.

He would call John tomorrow.  Tomorrow he wouldn’t be busy.  

But tomorrow had already begun and it had begun by Sherlock ignoring Johns phone call.   To be fair, Sherlock had only gone to bed at six-thirty, after being awake for over sixty-three hours.  He would speak to John after he had had more than a couple of hours sleep.

Sherlock groaned when the phone rang again, pulling the cushion over his head.  All he wanted to do was sleep.  The phone stopped ringing and Sherlock flung the pillow away.  John generally didn’t try ringing more than twice in a row and even then that was only when he needed to get in contact with Sherlock straight away, and since they weren’t on a case there was nothing pressing that John would need Sherlock for, therefore he would stop trying to get in contact now, at least for a few hours.

Sherlock was almost asleep when he was jolted awake by his phone vibrating again, only this time it was two short jolts.  A text message then.  Sherlock slowly rolled over, hoping that if he answered whatever it was that John wanted, the man would leave him alone.  

He slid the phone open and thumbed open the message.  What he read made his stomach drop, despite being in a supine position.

**Sherlock, answer your bloody phone.**

**William is missing.**

~o~

John was frantic, pacing three steps, only to spin around and pace back another three steps before repeating the process.  While his feet were busy pacing his hands were running through his hair, leaving the usually neat, combed style, sticking up in all directions.  A uniformed police officer was standing 4 and a half feet away, speaking into a radio.  Sherlock didn’t care what he was saying, judging by the look on his face it wasn’t important.  He watched John continue to pace, _three steps left, three steps right and repeat_ , in front of the completely useless stairs that led up into the outside of the British Library.  After another two circuits of his pacing, Sherlock crossed the road and headed over to John.

When he had first seen him, as the cab pulled up to the kerb, something had tightened in his chest, despite Johns obvious distress.  Sherlock quickly pushed it aside.  He wasn’t here to pine for John and feel sorry for himself.  He was here to find William.

“John” Sherlock said cautiously as he stepped from the road, up onto the footpath.

John stopped mid-pace and looked up at Sherlock.  “Sherlock, jesus…” he said taking a step towards Sherlock, his arms lifting as if to reach out to him, before dropping back to his sides and stopping his feet from moving any further forward.  “Williams gone.”

Sherlock could tell that John was trying to sound calm, but there was a slight ragged edge to his voice that portrayed the worry that must be crashing through his body.  It was certainly crashing through Sherlocks, and he hadn’t even started investigating yet.

“Have you heard anything?” He asked John.  John shook his head, knowing Sherlock was talking about a ransom demand.  “Was there anyone acting suspiciously, have you noted anyone hanging around more than usual.  Is there anyone you have pissed off lately?”

“You mean other than you?” John asked, a sad smile tainting his lips.  Sherlock felt as if he had been punched in the gut, Johns last message floating to the forefront of his mind.  **I’m sorry**.  He opened his mouth to tell John that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but John was talking again and the moment was gone.  Yet another thing for Sherlock to do later.  “Nothing out of the ordinary has happened, well, nothing suspicious.  William had been getting restless lately, his nightmares are getting…look, it doesn’t matter.  I was restless, I wanted to get him out of the house.  He wanted to go see you but you were…” John stopped and looked around, his hands clenching and releasing over and over again, by his thighs.  “He said he wanted to go the library.  This library” he emphasised, his hand gesturing, in a sharp sweep, the direction of the building behind him, before looking back up to Sherlock.  “It had to be here. He specifically asked to come here.  There was a kids fun day, something to do with British history.  Not something that I thought he would be interested in, but it was getting him out of the house, was hopefully going to stop the moping.  We hadn’t even been here for fifteen minutes and he was sitting next to me, colouring in a picture and then he was gone.  I looked away for five bloody seconds and he was gone.  Fuck, Sherlock, I need to find him.”

Sherlock stepped closer to John, close enough to place his hands on the other mans shoulders.  “We will find him, John.  I promise.”

John looked up at Sherlock and gave a short nod.  It was all Sherlock needed, Johns faith in him, and he set to work locating the where about’s of William Watson.

~o~

Sherlock wanted to hurt someone, anyone would do.  There were at least three people that had proved useless in the span of twenty minutes that would make perfect outlets for Sherlocks frustration.  First there was Helen, vice director of the library who refused to show them security footage of the entrances and exits to the library as they did not have warrants to view the tapes.  Then there was Lestrade, who was apparently away on some conference in Glasgow and unable to obtain a warrant.  He had offered to call in a favour but couldn’t guarantee it would be quick.  And then there was the security guard who had just informed John and Sherlock that the security team had looked all over the library and had found no child that fit Williams description. 

“Think, John.  Where would he go?” Sherlock urged, once more.

“Nowhere” John practically yelled.  “He doesn’t wander off.  I don’t know if you have noticed, but he stays glued to your side all the time, or did you happen to practically delete him in the week that you decided to completely ignore his existence?”

The words flew out of Johns mouth, low and angry, and hit Sherlock hard.  If the wide eyed look and the way the little colour John had left in his face drained away then the words were just as unexpected to him as well.  

“I’m sorry” John muttered, looking down and away.  “I didn’t mean…I was just….he doesn’t like being alone” John looked up at Sherlock again the desperation finally showing on his face.  “Not since we were taken.  He hates not knowing where I am.  It isn’t like him to walk off, Sherlock.” 

This time it was Sherlocks time to look away.  “I know” he muttered.  “I haven’t deleted…I wouldn’t.  It’s just, him walking off is the better alternative.”

The two of them stood in awkward silence, neither looking at the other man, out on the Euston Road sidewalk, in front of the library.  

Sherlock was just about to do what he had been avoiding and question John about the woman in the cafe’ - it wouldn’t be the first time he had attracted the attention of someone with a shady past, after all - when his phone vibrated in his pocket.  

Hoping it was Lestrade, with news on the warrant, he pulled the phone out of his pocket and scowled when he saw his brothers name flash up on the screen.

“Not now, Mycroft.  I’m a bit busy.  Do your own bloody work” he snapped and was about to hang up when his brother spoke.

“You might want to head home, Sherlock” he drawled from whatever deep hole he was occupying today.  

“Busy, Mycroft, I know you don’t understand the word, what with having an army to delegate to, but…”

“Yes, running the free world, as you like to tell everyone, is a veritable stroll in the park, but trust me when I say you will want to return back to 221 B Baker Street.”

“And why would I want to do that?”  Sherlock snapped, clearly frustrated.

“Because, brother dear, it appears you have a visitor, one I am sure you will want to receive.  John as well.”  And with that, the line went dead.

“What?” John asked, as Sherlock looked down at his phone, realisation at his brothers words slowly dawning on him.

“We have to get home” Sherlock said, throwing his hand out to hail a taxi.  “Apparently, William has gone to Baker Street.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> William is no longer missing and a few misunderstandings are cleared up.

~~~~~~~~~~

John drummed the fingers of his left hand on his thigh nervously, the entire seven minutes and twenty-three seconds it took to get back to Baker Street.  Sherlock opened his mouth several times to say something comforting, but once his mouth was readied to speak he realised that he didn’t actually know what to say, so he closed his mouth and turned to look back out the window until it was time to try again.  It was the longest seven minutes and twenty-three seconds of his life. 

As the cab pulled up to the kerb Sherlock thrust a handful of notes at the cabbie and quickly got out of the car.  As the door opened he stepped aside and let John through.  The man powered up the stairs before him.  “William” he called.  Before Sherlock had reached the first landing, John was at the first floor, pushing open the door to the living room.  “William” he called again and every ounce of tension flooded out of Sherlocks body, leaving him holding onto the banister for support as he heard the replying “Hello daddy.  Ith Therlock here too?”

Sherlock didn’t hear Johns response, too busy trying to get his legs to carry him the rest of the way up the stairs.  He hadn’t realised how much Williams disappearance had effected him until he had heard the boy speak, even with Mycrofts ares-about-face reassurance that he had been at 221B Baker Street.  

As Sherlock made his way into the living room, laying eyes on William for the first time in over a week, he saw John, squatted down in front of Sherlocks chair, where William was seated, asking “What were you thinking, taking off like that?”

William ignored Johns question in favour of smiling widely up at Sherlock and scooting over the edge of the chair in order to get past John to run to Sherlock.  

“ _Therlock”_ he cried happily, wrapping his small arms around Sherlocks legs.  Sherlock placed his hand on Williams head and smoothed down the hair that was sticking up at the back.  He was due for a haircut.  

“Hello William” he said quietly, down to the child wrapped around his legs.  “I hear you’ve been on a bit of an adventure today.”

At this William stepped back from Sherlock and glared over at John.  “Daddy wouldn’t bring me over to vithit you tho I came here mythelf.”

The hurt look that flickered across Johns face was unbearable as his son blamed him for something that was all together Sherlocks fault.  

“Ah, that may have been my doing, more than your fathers” Sherlock admitted.  At the confession, William stopped glaring at John and in turn looked up at Sherlock with pitiful confusion and Sherlock suddenly hated himself for purposely keeping himself away for so long.  He wanted to apologise to William, to promise never to do it again, but he couldn’t guarantee that the more time John spent with the woman from the cafe’ that he would have time for Sherlock later on down the track.  In the end, John broke the tension of William looking up at Sherlock _like that._

“That still doesn’t give you an excuse to run off like that William.  You made us both very worried.”

Finally William looked away from Sherlock, instead glaring down at the ground, his arms crossed across his chest and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“How did you even manage it anyway?” Sherlock asked, able to feel amazed at the boys feat now that the worry had all but disappeared.  “The British Library is over one and a half miles away.”

“I took the keyth from Daddy’th pocket and walked here” William explained grumpily, still glaring down at the ground by the corner of the rug.  Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock could see John checking his pockets and coming up empty.  “I knowed the way becauthe Mithuth Hudthon and me walked pathed there when we went to the bakery one time.”

One time.  William had walked that route _one time_ and had memorised the way back to Sherlock’s.  He had purposefully devised a way to get his father to take him to that particular library and then walked the entire way to Baker Street, on his own, despite hating being alone.  He had taken into account that neither he nor Mrs Hudson would be home and had taken the keys as a back up plan.  Sherlock did the math.  From the time that William had slipped Johns side to the time Mycroft had called Sherlock (assuming Mycroft had called no later than seven minutes after William had arrived) and calculated that it had taken William a little over an hour to make what would have taken Sherlock half an hour to walk.  

“How did you reach the lock?” John asked, breaking Sherlocks train of thought, not sounding angry any more just curious.  “Even on your toes, you couldn’t reach it.”

“The married oneth nextht door” was the simple reply and with that William decided that he had had enough of glaring at the ground and talking about his trip from the library.  “Why don’t you want to thee uth any more, Therlock?”  he asked, looking back up at Sherlock and this time the look was worse.  His eyes were wide and pleading, his bottom lip pouting.  He looked miserable and that just made Sherlock feel like an even bigger bastard than before.  “We mithed you.”  Sherlock couldn’t look at William any more, so he looked up to John.  It wasn’t much better, so he looked towards the kitchen and then back at his now vacant chair.  

“I was giving your dad some space” he said around the lump in his throat.  “Now that he has a girlfriend, I thought it was best I stayed away for a bit.”

At this revelation William made a slight retching sound which was only just heard over John saying “I’m sorry, I have a what?”

“A girlfriend” Sherlock said, looking back to John.  “I thought maybe spending so much time with me would make it hard for you to…do…couple-y things?”

“Yeah, right, thanks for that” John muttered, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking forwards on the balls of his feet and back onto his heals again.  “Would be greatly appreciated if I actually had a girlfriend.”

Again, William made a retching noise, but Sherlock paid him no attention.  Instead he studied Johns face, wondering why he was lying.  

“I saw you, John.  At the cafe’” Sherlock explained.  “You were holding her hand and smiling at her.”

John frowned at Sherlocks word, not in anger, but more like confusion.  “What are you talking about Sherlock?” he asked sounding slightly exasperated. 

“At Paul’s Patisserie’ by Tower Bridge.  You were there, with…a…blonde wom….why are you smiling like that?”

“Because you really are a great big bloody idiot, that’s why” John answered, his smile growing even more.  “She isn’t my girlfriend, Sherlock.”

John looked back on that day, the way John had looked at the woman, had held her hand.  It had certainly seemed romantic, or was it maybe…familiar?  

“Harry” Sherlock deduced after a few moments of silent deliberation.  This was proven incorrect by the snort that John gave.  

“No, not quite.  The day me and Harry look at each other like that is the day Hell freezes over, but close.  It was Clara.”

“Clara”  Sherlock repeated, still not sure what this all meant.

“Yeah, Harry’s ex-wife.  She lives in Canada now, has done for over three years - heads up the Canadian branch of the Advertising company she works for.  She called that morning, hoping to catch up while she had a few hours free as it was only a quick, spontaneous trip back to the London firm.  She hasn’t seen us since William was six months old.”

“Harry’s ex-wife” Sherlock repeated, somewhat aware that he was behind in the conversation, but still too busy trying to catch up to care too much.

“Thee brought me a moothe” William announced proudly.  “Hith name ith Gerald and he keepth Tom Bombadil company when I am at daycare.” 

Sherlock blinked down at William, still grasping the fact that John didn’t in fact have a girlfriend.  He looked back up at John.  “I thought, after the train station, when I almost…I thought I had made you uncomfortable so you had started dating her.  I thought you would want some time away from me.”

“God, no” John cut in.  “I thought _I_ had made _you_ uncomfortable.  After all, Greg said you didn’t really do relationships and all that.  I thought I had royally buggered everything up.”

“Oh” was all Sherlock could say to that, “So you actually wanted to…that day at the train.”

John looked down and Sherlock was somewhat pleased to note the pink that had tinged his cheeks.   “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to” John said quietly.  “Like I said, Lestrade said you weren’t in to that.  I just thought that day, you wanted…well, I misread the situation.”

“Lestrade is an idiot” Sherlock scowled, anger curling in his gut at the assumed (incorrect) knowledge of Sherlocks lifestyle and thinking of all the ways he could make Lestrades life hard for the next three cases - _at least_.  “Lestrade may have known me for longer than most people, but he most certainly doesn’t know me and whilst I don’t make a habit of partaking in the sentimentality that results in relationships of the less platonic nature, it doesn’t mean that I completely abstain altogether.”

“What did he jutht thay?” William whispered to his father and Sherlock looked down to him to see that he looked utterly bewildered.

“I think he just asked me out” John replied, also sounding somewhat bewildered.  “At least, I hope he did.”

Sherlock looked up at John again as confidence swirled up inside of his chest.  This was most unexpected as when it came to matters of feeling and sentiment Sherlock tended to find himself floundering but not now.  Now the answer was instantaneous .  “John.  I would be more than grateful if you would indeed go out with me in the near future” Sherlock confirmed.  “As in a date.  Together.  Me and you” and then he cringed as he suddenly found himself floundering once more.  That could have gone a lot smoother, but Johns grin banished all feelings of awkwardness.

“I’d love to” he beamed and Sherlock beamed back.

“Are you going to kith now?” William asked, torn between curiosity and repulsion, as he looked from John to Sherlock and back to John again.  “Gavin thayth you thould jutht bloody hurry up and do it already.”

The pink that had tinted John’s cheeks earlier returned and Sherlock could feel the same happening to his own skin. 

“Ah, maybe later” John suggested and Sherlock agreed.  Later, when they weren’t being scrutinised by a four year old.  Later sounded marvellous.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things progress in the relationship and all is well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so , so , so sorry that this chapter took forever to come, but it took me ages to write it as I kept getting stumped on how it should go. It was re-written a kajillion times but now it is finally here and hopefully you enjoy!  
> There is no William in this chapter - It is all John & Sherlock! I wasn’t sure if it was going to happen or not, but then it did, so I have had to up the rating, just a smidgen, because in this chapter our boys finally get up to things that are not exactly PG13.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was amazing how much kissing could be accomplished in the span of seven and a half days.  What boggled Sherlocks mind even more was how much more of it he and John could have been doing had they not had to worry about other people, mainly William who was still under the impression that kissing was quite possibly the grossest thing on the face of the Earth.  Sherlock would most definitely have to disagree.  In fact, it was quite possibly one of the most wonderful things on the face of the Earth, especially when it was being done with John Watson.  What was even more surprising were the other things that had come as part of the ‘ _John Watson - Romantic Partner of Sherlock Holmes_ ’ package.  Things that Sherlock would have, not that long ago, scoffed at and considered an annoyingly complete waste of time was now a part of his every day schedule.  Hand holding, embraces, Johns fingers carding through Sherlocks hair, stealing food off of each others plates (all though, to be fair - that wasn’t a new experience, just more frequent now) and Sherlock draped over the back of John as John made tea, were now all common place activities in Sherlocks life and he wouldn’t change it for the world.  

The only thing they hadn’t progressed to, so far, was sex.  In fact, it hadn’t even been mentioned.  Sherlock wasn’t sure why this was the case, so therefore wasn’t sure how to approach the topic.  Was it because William was always nearby?  If so, would it be crass or inappropriate to organise a babysitter for the evening?  Was it because John was under the impression that Sherlock was inexperienced ( _thank you very much Mycroft and Gavin!!!_ ) and didn’t want to push the issue?  If so, was it too early in the relationship to put an end to all those doubts?  (He didn’t want to seem like some horny impatient slag.)  Or, was it that Sherlock had been correct in assuming that John had never partaken in a relationship with another male and wasn’t completely comfortable?  If so, what was the protocol in reassuring your partner that it was all fine and they could do whatever he was comfortable with?  Sherlock was certain that John wasn’t having doubts about entering into a relationship with Sherlock as his touches and kisses still came quite frequently and quite often when Sherlock was least expecting it.

Sherlock spent another three days pondering this problem and trying to figure out how to broach the subject with John without bumbling through it and making the situation awkward and uncomfortable for all involved.  In the end, the solution presented itself…sort of.

~o~

“Good evening” John said, as he made his way into the living room of 221 B, unzipping his jacket and sliding it off.  Sherlock looked up from rosining his bow and noted straight away that John looked a bit tense.  He then noticed that there was no William.  

“John” Sherlock greeted, tilting his head to try and see past John, but there was still no sign of the boy, which was only made definite by the lack of noise that accompanied his every visit.  “Where’s William?”

John looked to Sherlock, one eyebrow cocked, as he made his way to his chair and sat down, sitting on the edge, rather than sinking back against the back of the chair - another sign of his tension.  “He is having a sleep over at Brian’s tonight.  I told you this yesterday, remember, we bought new pyjamas for the occasion.  They have ninja turtles on them.”

Sherlock thought back to the previous day and vaguely remembered something green and ridiculous being thrust in his face by William as he prattled on excitedly about a tent and pizza.  

Sherlock looked to John.  His back was straight, bottom lip slightly red from being worried between his teeth.  His hands were clasped tightly in his lap, his feet placed neatly next to each other.  This sleep over was apparently the cause of the tension John was carrying. 

“It’s the first time he has slept away from home without you” Sherlock stated, the time John had been held captive not needing to be mentioned.  John nodded.  

“It’s fine.  He’ll be okay.  Jodie and Mark have my number and he has Gerald and Tom Bombadil and Brian is a good kid.  He’s going to be okay.  It is just one night after all.” John was rambling, a clear indication that it was himself he was trying to convince of the fineness of it all and not Sherlock.

“Of course he’ll be fine” Sherlock agreed.  “But you on the other hand…” he finished with a smirk.  

“Oh, fuck off:” John replied with a smile, ditching a cushion at Sherlock.  

Sherlock chuckled and swatted the pillow away with the hand not currently holding his bow.  “He’ll be fine John.  You don’t need to worry.”

John seemed to deflate a bit and slumped back in his chair.  “I know, _I know_ ” he sighed.  “It’s just - it’s his first sleep over.  It’s a bit weird not having him here.  I know he will be fine.”

Sherlock reached over and placed his bow and the rosin gently on the coffee table and stood up.  “Come on” he said, walking towards his coat, hanging by the door.

“Where are we going?” John asked, sitting up and half turning to watch Sherlock.

“It is not even seven o’clock, we have nothing on and there is no child to directly worry about.  You’re taking me on that date you promised me.”

“Ah, actually, I think you’ll find that it was you who promised me a date.  You know, together.  Me and you.”

Sherlock tried to glare at John for bringing up the way he had bumbled his way through that invitation but a glare is somehow less effective when your cheeks are turning pink.  

“Semantics” Sherlock replied and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

John chuckled quietly under his breath and put his jacket back on, zipping it up as he led the way down the stairs.  “Any preferences?” he asked.  “Bowling, the cinema.  Oh, I know - mini golf!”

“John” Sherlock said in a low warning voice.  “Don’t make me break up with you before our first date.”

Johns response was to just chuckle as he led them out onto the street.

~o~

The date was simple, yet enjoyable.  John introduced Sherlock to a small, hole-in-the-wall that sold the most authentic Greek food Sherlock had so far tasted in London.  They sat, ate, drank wine and spoke about not much in particular and it all would have been fantastic had John not checked his phone every ten minutes.  

Sherlock assured him, three times, that William would be fine, in which case he left it fifteen minutes before he checked his phone but, despite his cheerful mood as they had left the flat and caught  taxi to the restaurant, John was still tense.  Sherlock had been tempted to take the phone away from John until he relaxed somewhat but the Mycroft in his head told him that would only exacerbate the situation.  He was then tempted to take the phone to spite the Mycroft in his head but the feeling that that wasn’t fair to John over rid the annoyance that was his not even present brother.

The walk back to the flat took three quarters of an hour and the whole time the conversation oscillated between case work, what William was probably up to, Mrs Hudson’s new gentleman friend, whether William had brushed his teeth now, A gangrenes foot that John had seen at work two days ago, whether Brian’s parents would read the normal 6 - 7 books that William liked before bed, Lestrades new love-hate relationship with cufflinks and deciding whether or not John should call Jodie, just to double check that William was okay.

“John, it is almost nine-thirty.  William is more than likely asleep and I am certain she will call you if there are any problems.  Plus, we are home.”

John looked up to see that they were in fact standing in front of 221 B Baker Street and Sherlock noted how he looked a bit odd, almost as if he were nervous. 

“Oh.  I suppose I had better go then” he stated and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he sounded disappointed or uncertain.  Either way, it wasn’t proving to be a good turn out for Sherlock who had realised throughout dinner that tonight might possibly be the night that they finally had intercourse.  He needed John to be delighted and extremely sure and most certainly not talking about leaving.

“Coffee” Sherlock offered, and didn’t wait for an answer as he opened the door and walked inside.  As predicted, John followed his gait still slightly favouring the right leg as he mounted the stairs.  

Once inside the flat Sherlock shed his coat and set about making two cups of coffee.  Once the two of them were settled on the couch Sherlock suddenly found himself feeling slightly awkward, despite having sat with John on the couch numerous times the past week and a half.

“Movie?” John offered and Sherlock agreed even though watching the TV was the last thing on his mind.  After ten minutes of skipping through all the channels they finally found an old Alfred Hitchcock movie that Sherlock vaguely remembered liking when he was young and together the two of them watched in silence, slowly feeling more and more relaxed to the point that when the movie finally finished Sherlock was leaning against John with his head on his shoulder and their hands were entwined, nestled snuggly between their thighs and John had been preoccupied enough to only have checked his phone four times throughout the movie.

“I should probably get going” John said as the credits listed up the screen and Sherlock was torn between disappointment at the words John had uttered and very pleased that the tone they were said in was more like resignation rather than want.

“Stay” Sherlock responded, holding tighter onto Johns hand, deciding that he would just refuse to let go if John declined.  But John didn’t decline.  He tilted his head down and kissed Sherlock.  Just gently.  

‘ _Well, this will never do_ ’ Sherlock thought and pushed back into the kiss, probing with his tongue until John parted his lips, allowing entrance into his mouth which Sherlock was all but happy to take advantage of.  The angle was awkward but that didn’t stop Sherlock from twisting his body so he was facing John.  In fact, it just encouraged him to do so and feeling bold he managed to manoeuvre himself so he ended up straddling Johns lap without having to pull away from Johns mouth for more than a second or two.  The position was ridiculous, what with Sherlock already taller than John, but somehow it was more of a turn on, leaning over John, forcing him to lean back against the couch, Johns hands coming up to grip Sherlocks arse, holding on tight as he pushed back into the kiss, not allowing Sherlock to have total control.  Sherlock pulled back, just a bit, causing John to have to stretch up to reach his mouth and Sherlock smirked against his mouth, a signal to John that if he wanted any form of control he would have to work for it.  For the next few minutes they continued teasing each others mouths, kissing and nipping, and Sherlock was more than pleased that, every time he leant forward, he could feel that John was having the same reaction that he was having over their fight for dominance.  That reaction was the erection he could feel push up against his own whenever they were pressed closer together.  

“Unless this is all you want tonight then we should really not do this here on the couch” John murmured between kisses as his hands grabbed Sherlocks waist and pulled him forward, stopping his hips from rolling away from John.

A cross between a whimper and a groan formed somewhere in the base of Sherlocks throat at John’s words.  He wanted more.  More than just heated snogging on the couch.  “You’ll need to let go of me” Sherlock replied, pulling away from Johns mouth only briefly to speak before pushing forward again hoping that that was enough of a cue for John to move proceedings along.

With a small, satisfied sigh and a final attempts at dominating the kiss, Johns hands fell away from Sherlocks hips and he nudged the man in an attempt to get him off of his lap, which Sherlock did enthusiastically.

Quietly the two of them got up off of the couch and with Sherlock pulling John along, they made it to Sherlocks bedroom where the kiss was instantly resumed while hands quickly, but gently, roamed bodies, plucking at buttons and lowering zippers.  Before long, the two of them were wearing nothing and Sherlock took a step back to take in what he could in the dim light coming through the bedroom door.

“John” he breathed and went to take a step forward, but John moved and climbed onto the bed, pulling himself over so he was lying on the far side, on his side facing Sherlock.  Sherlock took no time to also climb onto the bed, on his side facing John, with barely a hands width between them.  

“Come here” John growled out and pulled Sherlocks chin until their lips met again and again and again, pulling small moans and gasps from the two of them.  Deciding that, while the kissing was very lovely indeed, he needed more, Sherlock hitched his leg over Johns thigh and pulled the man closer.  John reciprocated by placing his hand on Sherlocks shoulder blade, closing that gap between them just a bit more.  This kiss lacked the dominance that the previous ones had had, but it was no less intimate.  As Johns tongue languidly pressed into Sherlocks mouth, Sherlock gently thrust his hips towards John.  The result brought a soft moan out of John and a caused a shiver to run up Sherlocks spine.  So he did it again. 

“John” Sherlock gasped into Johns mouth and John brought his hand between them, wrapping it around the both of them. 

The pleasure of feeling Johns erection, long and hard, pushed up against his own had Sherlock biting his bottom lip, holding in the moan that wanted to escape.  Once John started moving his hand, slowly down and then back up again, there was no hope in hell of keeping that moan locked away and the sound started deep in his chest as his hips kicked forward, trying to get John to move faster.  When he didn’t get the hint Sherlock manoeuvred his own hand so it was placed around Johns and together they adjust the speed and pressure to something that pleased the both of them.

Sherlock tried to keep track of everything that John did, the small twists of his wrists, they way his body arched towards Sherlocks, the sounds he made - the small moans and gasps and aborted utterances of Sherlocks name, the way he smelt, but the filing room in his mind palace was locked, the key hidden somewhere amongst the aching pleasure that was building up in his core, threatening to burn him up until there was nothing left but smouldering ashes, when finally, _finally_ , John finally choked out Sherlocks name and stars burst behind Sherlocks closed eyes as he jerked erratically into their joined fists, the results of the orgasm, which had just rolled through him at break-neck speed, pulsing over their hands, John following after him by mere seconds.

For what seemed like eternity the two of them lay there, chests heaving, their hands still wrapped loosely around their spent cocks as they let the sounds of the night wash over them, the realisation of what had occurred - the fact that they had finally crossed that final line in their relationship - dawning on him and Sherlock had never felt so at ease in his life.    
For once he was calm and quiet, without the aid of man-made chemicals, and Sherlock had no doubt that John, in his life, was the best decision he had ever made.  

If the way Johns head was gently resting on Sherlocks shoulder and they way his breathing had calmed right down and the way his hand had moved to Sherlocks hip and was tracing sticky circles into the skin was anything to go by, then John was having no regrets as well.  

Before things started to get to uncomfortable, Sherlock quietly rolled out of bed, shushing Johns quiet protestations and padded into the bathroom where he cleaned himself up.  Coming back, he gave John a cursory clean up and, throwing the face washer somewhere towards the end of the bed, he manoeuvred John and himself under the blankets and made himself comfortable, half draped over John.  

“John” Sherlock murmured as he felt John rolling the shoulder Sherlock wasn’t currently using as a pillow.

“Hmmm?”

“It’s been over an hour since you checked your phone.”

There was a short huff of laughter from above before John grumbled “Shut up.”

Silence once again filled the room as Sherlock once again reflected on how right this all felt, him and John, together.

“Stay” he suddenly said into the quiet.  It was the second time he had made that request that night but this time he didn’t mean for just the night.

“It would be a bit hard not to, what with you wrapped around me like the worlds clingiest blanket.”

Sherlock repressed the eye roll.  It was blatantly clear that Sherlock had gotten comfortable so clearly he wasn’t just asking for the night.  “No, I meant stay.  For good” he said.  “Move in with me.”

When there was no reply from John, not even a change in his breathing pattern, Sherlock started to worry that maybe he had been a bit too premature in trying to move their relationship forward.  After one very long minute, John responded.

“That would mean William, full-time.”

Sherlock didn’t resist the eye roll this time.  Of course there would be William.  They came as a package, John and William - William and John.  As a general rule, there wasn’t one without the other.  In fact, if it hadn’t been for William there wouldn’t currently be John in his bed.

 

“Yes, thank you for pointing out the obvious.”

There was silence as John seemed to parse over Sherlocks obvious statement.

“I mean, in the morning, in the night, all day, every day” John continued, as if Sherlock wasn’t aware what full-time would entail.

“I am well aware of what you meant by full time and you forget, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

“It would be domestic.  Dinner at the same time every night, breakfast cereal in the cupboard and actual fruit and vegetables in the fridge.”

Sherlock let out a small frustrated huff of a sigh.  John was deflecting from the real reason, and using William as an excuse to do so.  “Yes, I have seen your kitchen, and again…done it before, so would you like to stop using William as an excuse and tell me why you are really having doubts about moving in?”

Again there was silence, and this time it stretched past the minute mark and Sherlock was starting to wonder if John was just refusing to answer. 

“I have nightmares” John finally admitted quietly, sounding as if it were something to be ashamed of.  “Of the war and of Small.  It can sometimes be quite violent.”

“I didn’t know that.”  He should have.  William had told him, all those months ago, that he gave John Tom Bombadil to sleep with when he had bad dreams.

“It doesn’t happen as much as it used to” John added, trying - and failing - to sound as if the issues wasn’t really bothering him.   “And if it leaves me looking like I haven’t slept all night, I generally blame it on a shit day at work.”

Sherlock cursed himself for not seeing the signs sooner, not that he knew what he would have done about it, but he should have noticed.  “But you were happy to stay tonight?” he offered, his grip tightening on Johns hip, just in case their conversation had in some way convinced John he was no longer wanted in Sherlocks bed.  

John inhaled slowly and exhaled loudly as if his next words were going to be a heavy burden.  “I wasn’t actually planning on sleeping much, plus I am usually aware when someone else is in my bed.  I have to be otherwise I’d end up lashing out at William whenever he slept in my bed.  But I can’t guarantee that all the time, especially when it would be a constant thing.  Eventually I’d get too exhausted form too many nights of light sleeping.”

 _Stupid_.  Sherlock was so stupid for not noticing all of this.  How could he not notice all of this?  It is what he did - he _noticed_ things about people.  He should have put the clues together.  Williams admission that John had nightmares, his refusal to take tablets that would put him into a deep sleep, Johns PTSD from his army days and his captivity, the way John was sometimes tired, even when there had been no case work.  It wasn’t like he worked full time - only eight hours a day four days a week, the turning down of offers to stay at Baker Street when he was kept there late, even when he had only been in the guest room.  It was all signs that he didn’t want people to witness his sleeping habits as they often took a turn for the worst.  They often kept him up.  It was all there, right in front of Sherlock, spelt out as clear as day and Sherlock hadn’t seen it.

“It’s why you don’t take the sleeping tablets” he said after a few more moments of silence, because it was all he could think to say.

John just hummed out a confirmation and the room once again fell into silence.

“I play the violin, at all hours, when I am thinking.  I sometimes don’t talk for days” Sherlock suddenly blurted out.

“Right, I have a hard time believing the last one, but why are you telling me this?”

“Bedmates should know the worst about each other, don’t you think?”

“Sherlock, I have known you for a few months now.  That is not the worst of you" John stated fondly.

“Fine, I used to chew my own toe nails until I was seventeen, happy” Sherlock admitted, giving John a slight pinch to the hip just to let him know that he wasn’t at all happy at having to divulge that information.

“That’s disgusting” John responded, the slight tone of disgust evident in his voice, mixed with a slight hint of humour.

Sherlock let out a small sigh.  “Now you know the absolute worst thing about me.  Are you put off?”

“Funnily enough, no” John said with a half chuckle.  This pleased Sherlock greatly.

“Good, when can you start moving in?”

Again there was silence but in that silence he could hear John thinking.  Thinking was a good sign.  It meant that the idea hadn’t been completely dismissed.

“You’re not going to let this drop, are you?” he asked

Sherlock gave a short shake of his head.  “Nope.”

“And if I don’t answer, you’ll get Mrs Hudson in on it too?”

“Yep.”  This was accompanied with a short nod.

“My lease doesn’t end for another three months, so I suppose….”

“Your landlord is using the sixteen year old boy who lives with his grandmother, two flats over, to sell marijuana he is growing in his second bedroom.  Trust me when I tell you that he will break your lease with no extra costs incurred” Sherlock cut in, not at all prepared to wait for three months until John moved in.

“How long have you been planning this?”

“I have been keeping that information for the past three months for if you ever needed to break lease.”  He knew it had been a good idea to keep the landlord indiscretions close to his chest.  “I decided that you should move in with me ten days ago.”

“You knew there was a drug dealer in my apartment…”

“Oh, please, John, there are drug dealers everywhere  - Mycroft has at least two living on his street - and had I thought he would be a danger to you or William I would have turned him over Lestrade the second I found out.”

A deep inhale could be heard from John, causing Sherlock to hold his own breath.  This could go either way at the moment.  Either Sherlock was going to be very happy or Sherlock was going to have to play dirty ( _aka - getting William on his side!_ )

“I work for the next two days, but I have Friday off.”

Sherlock let out the breath he had been holding and let a grin steal over his face.  “Is that a yes?”

“Yes, you daft git, that’s a yes, but don’t blame me when you wake up with a black eye.”

Sherlocks grin grew wider.  “You’ll be fine John.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about.”

Sherlock ignored Johns concerns (everything would be fine) and started making plans for the flat.  The top bedroom needed clearing out and made more appealing for a four year old boy.  “I know a person who can paint the ceiling to look like the night sky” Sherlock said to John’s chest and John replied with a non-committed hum.  “We can get those stickers that glow in the dark, you know the ones, they look like stars.”  Another hum, this one slower.  “And the rug will have to go.  It’s ghastly, a throwback from the 70’s I’m sure, placed in the top room so no-one would have to look at it.”  The response this time was a soft snore and Sherlock realised that John was not actually listening to him, instead choosing to fall into a light sleep.  

Sherlock rested on Johns shoulder and listened to the man sleep.  It was a  wonderful sound.  One of the best sounds.  And it was all his now.  Every night for the foreseeable future.  Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes.  Everything was right with his world.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is good at 221 B Baker Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I took so long getting the last chapter up, I give you this one, just two days later - the last chapter in this story - but not to fear, NOT the last story in the series - and it has been a wonderful journey watching the boys relationship grow. Thank you to all of those of you who have, and will, support this fic. Without you all it would not have been half as fun and to be honest, probably wouldn’t have been finished so it is a massive thanks that I offer you all and big squishy hugs too!  
> So, just a quick chapter to tie everything up neatly - hope you all enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a month, and things were settled and moving smoothly. Well, as settled and smoothly as things could go with a retired army doctor, the worlds only consulting detective and a four year old residing in the same living space.

There had been bumps in the road, ( _No you can’t bring a head home and keep it in the fridge, Sherlock!_ ), but nothing that had lasted more than a few hours, ( _John, come back to bed.  I forgive you for ironing my shirt_ ) and as they awkwardly found out, Sherlock and John needed to keep quiet during sex ( _I heard you crying last night Therlock.  Did you have a bad dream again?_ ), but it was all fine because Sherlock was happy, even with that one incident where Sherlock and William got separated at the shops ( _I didn’t lose him John, I have just somehow managed to … misplace him_ ).

Johns had admitted that sharing a bed with a trusted partner had caused his nightmares to become less, but neither of them were so naive as to believe that Sherlock was a magical balm that would completely rid him of the images of his past manifesting into the dreams that caused him to sometimes lash out.  This was proven so after the ninth night of sharing a bed together.  John had spent the following day feeling remorseful over Sherlocks split lip, no matter how much Sherlock told him there was nothing to feel bad about.  Sherlock had soon gotten him out of the guilt trip by placing slugs in with the tea bags _and_ the coffee ( _It was an experiment John!_ )

Sherlock still got bored.  There was now a smiley face spray painted on the wall, above the couch to attest to this.  Bullet holes lined its grin just to further confirm his taedium vitae.  William took this to mean that he too could also decorate the walls when he was bored and there was now a smaller version of the smiley face (sans bullet holes) in yellow crayon on the stairwell leading up to his bedroom.  Sherlock had a good strop that day over the fact that not only did Mrs Hudson _not_ tell William off, as she had him, but John also told Sherlock off as well as William.  How was that possibly Sherlocks fault?

Sherlock sneered at the amount of green and leafy that had taken over his fridge but the offending vegetables soon left his mind once he slammed the fridge door shut and the sneer was replaced with something akin to satisfaction as he would then pull a box of fruity-bix out of the cupboard and ate them straight from the box.  John called him inhuman as no-one should be able to eat those things dry. 

“It’s like eating compacted saw dust with a sultana in the middle.”

“These ones are apricot, John.”

“Oh, well, that must make it bearable then.” John replied with vague sarcasm and that fond grin that Sherlock was still getting used to.  He didn’t think anyone had ever been _fond_ of him before.

Sarcasm for the sake of humour and not insult was something that Sherlock was becoming very used to.  He now knew not to take everything John said literally.  ( _Despite what John had said he really was not a fan of the Wiggles and had absolutely no desire to go to the concert with William.  At least William had enjoyed himself._ )

There were now an endless supply of fresh biscuits and cakes and scones delivered daily from Mrs Hudson.  Sherlock had even persuaded William to tell Mrs Hudson that orange and poppyseed were his own favourite so there seemed to be an influx of those more so than before, which left Sherlock extremely pleased.

But of course with so much good happening, the bad was sure to follow.  Due to the fact that John and Lestrade had formed some sort of friendship, John moving in to Baker Street now meant that unfortunately he now saw more of Lestrade, which in turn meant more of Mycroft. ( _You still have one of my umbrellas.  I will be getting it back._ )

But Sherlock would take daily visits from Mycroft any day if it meant that John and William were in 221 B Baker Street.  Since they had moved in, Sherlocks life had, despite the bouts of boredom that still came about, seemed…complete.  They had filled a void that he hadn’t even known existed and while Sherlock had never seen himself as the domestic sort ( _he still didn’t do the housework_ ) it seemed as if that role - the role of William and Johns life - had easily slotted in next to and around his own.  They had fallen into an easy routine that was neither consistent or constant, just there, and it suited them, all three of them.  Perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the Wiggles reference - I babysat my niece and nephew on the weekend and I still have the songs stuck in my head.  
> For those of you who don't know who the Wiggles are - count yourselves truely blessed!


End file.
